UC-NRLF 


SB    It  A    333 


I 


ELFREIDE  OF  GULDAL, 


5, 


AND 


OTHER     POEMS 


BY 

MARKS   OF   BARHAMVILLE, 


NEW-YORK : 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  200  BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA  : 
GEO.  S.  APPLETON,  164  CHESTNUT  STREET 

1850. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 
D.  APPLETON   &   COMPANY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New-York. 


CONTENTS. 


ELFREIDE  OF  GULDAL ,.  -  ".        .       9 

SEMAEL  »    i^^j***#*^^~   *•*        *         '         ^ 

MAIA  97 


WEEDS   FROM   LIFE'S   SEA-SHORE. 

The  Chrysalis .  .131 

The  Maniac-Mother        .        ....     .:     '.        r        .  .         135 

Ei  Tap        .        ,        •    '  *  •        .   ^  f*    .....  .139 

To  J.  P.  M.    .        .        .        .        .        .  .  " .        .  .        140 

The  Inner- World                  :  142 


M8G5603 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Thoughts          ........  147 

The  Peasant- Wife        .      •  .         .        .         ."       .         .         .152 

The  Tablet      .        .        ,        .*,       .        .    c\         .         .  156 

The  Globe- Amaranth  .        . 160 

To  the  Evening  Star             ,.    *"*„         .        .         .         .  162 

Mary 164 

"Nacoochee" 168 

The  Artist  .    '    .        '.  ^  '/'^  "    ,.'  ''T v-   ~ •*.        /'      .  173 

La  Fayette 184 


ELFREIDE   OF  GULDAL 


A    SCANDINAVIAN    LEGEND. 


Extra  anni  solisque  vias." — VIKUIL. 


THE  following  Poem  refers  to  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  and 
beginning  of  the  fourteenth  centuries ;  a  period  rife  with  interesting 
historical  associations,  and  one  in  which  the  European  mind  receives 
a  wonderful  impulse.  It  is  the  age  of  the  First  Edward,  of  Wallace, 
and  of  Bruce  ;  of  Llewyllen,  and  of  the  last  minstrelsy  of  the  Cam 
brian  bards.  It  is  associated  with  the  Hohenstaufen,  a  race  with 
whom  much  of  soul-stirring  and  ennobling  deed  is  connected  ;  of 
the  rise  of  the  Hapsbourg,  who,  with  the  exception  of  Rodolph,  its 
founder,  possess  a  character  the  most  opposite  to  the  preceding  dy 
nasty  ;  of  the  great  and  successful  struggle  of  Helvetic  freedom  ;  of 
the  re-assembling  of  the  Tibrs  etats  under  Philip  the  Fair,  and  of 
the  successful  opposition  to  papal  tyranny ;  of  the  first  regular  Par 
liament  of  England  ;  of  the  noble  stand  made  by  the  Barons  of 
Arragon  against  monarchical  supremacy  ;  and  last,  not  least,  of  the 
discovery  of  Greenland,  and  the  landing  on  the  New  England  coast 
by  the  Normans — the  people  who  are  the  subject  of  this  Poem,  and 
the  countrymen  of  Elfreide. 


• 


ELFREIDE   OF   GULDAL. 


PART  I. 

MIDNIGHT  is  past ;  the  west'ring  moon  looks  down 
Upon  a  waste  of  waters,  stretching  far 
From  the  Norwegian  to  Icelandic  shore ; 
And  surging  inland  to  the  rock-girt  Nide, 
Laves  the  gray  walls  of  Drontheim's  time-worn  towers. 
Swift  speeding  from  its  mountain-source,  the  Moa, — 
It's  crisped  wave  lit  by  the  cold  moonbeam, — 
Like  chief  impatient  for  the  battle-field, 


10  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Speeds  oceanward  ;  but  meeting  in  its  path 
Thy  lovely  vale,  sweet  Guldal,  slacks  its  course, 
And  gently  winding  slow,  enamored  woos 
Thy  flowery  shelves,  as  if  now  loath  to  leave 
Beauty  surpassing  for  a  scene  of  strife. 

But  who  is  he,  at  this  unwonted  hour, 
When  the  sleek  reindeer  seeks  his  lichen-bed, 
Looks  o'er  the  wave  from  yon  projecting  cliff? 
His  cloak  is  girt  around ;  for  the  night-breeze, 
Although  'tis  summer-tide,  is  chill ; — uncoifF'd 
He  gives  his  fever'd  brow  to  the  keen  winds. 

'Tis  the  young  Harald,  Scandinavia's  pride, 
Of  Drontheim's  youth  most  favored  ;    Haco's  son, 
Haco,  who  on  the  field  of  Esterdal, 
Shook  off  the  vassal- fetters  of  the  Dane, 
And  on  the  Dofrine's  highest  peak,  uprais'd 
The  ensign  of  his  country's  charter'd  rights. 

But  why  is  it,  that  thus  the  son  foregoes 
The  sweets  of  home,  of  cultured  friends,  of  ease, 
Accustom'd  letter'd  tnil.  and  minstrelsy, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  11 

To  wander  at  this  midnight  hour,  in  scenes 
Where  the  lynx  skulking,  and  the  prowling  wolf 
Seek  the  wild  shore  for  what  the  waves  have  left  ? 

Is  it  ambition  thwarted  ?  has  the  friend 
On  whom  his  soul  repos'd,  betray'd  his  trust  ? 
Has  she,  the  lov'd  Elfreide,  of  humble  birth, 
The  loveliest  of  GuldaPs  maids,  has  she 
Prov'd  false  to  vows,  which  made  her  wholly  his, 
Turning  her  vision  from  his  fallen  state, 
Like  evening  cloud,  when  bright-ey'd  day  has  fled  ? 

O  no,  not  these  ;  in  the  spring-tide  of  joy, 
When  his  full  soul  had  on  the  billow-top 
Of  fortune's  wild,  unconquerable  sea, 
In  expectation  mounted  ;  and  the  shore, 
Where  honor  would  have  reap'd  her  laurel'd  wreath, 
A  ppear'd  in  prospect ;  even  then  came  o'er 
A  causeless,  nameless  horror,  loathing  strange 
Of  what  seem'd  bright  without.     Soul-plum'd  ambition, 
Heart  of  the  world,  which  gives  its  pulse  to  being, 
Droop'd  in  an  instant ;  and  the  fiend  despair — 


12  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Whose  siren  whisperings  are  like  the  moan 
Of  ocean-shell,  telling  of  happier  home, 
And  coral  palaces  beneath  the  deep — 
Bade  his  sad  burdened  spirit  flee  away. 

As  from  electric  cloud,  the  thought  flash'd  home, 
That  all  which  seemed  so  glorious  to  his  hopes, 
Of  living  in  the  lives  of  men  unborn, 
Was  but  a  day-dream,  a  bright  tissue  wov'n 
To  sport  before  his  fame-deluded  eye, 
Like  fairy,  swinging  on  a  gossamer 
In  moon-lit  bower. 

Thus  the  golden  chain, 
Which  links  the  soul  to  its  original, 
And  from  that  centre  sends  its  meshes  forth 
To  human  hearts,  was  broken.     Now,  no  more 
In  things  without,  what  truly  is  within 
The  volume  of  the  soul,  and  only  there, 
Bright  forms  of  beauty  and  of  grace  disport. 
All  these  reflect  upon  his  sadden'd  being, 
Not  as  a  summer's  sun,  but  as  the  lights 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  13 

Which  now  are  flick'ring  round  yon  arctic  pole, 
Marshalling  their  hosts  in  heaven.     E'en  music's  self, 
That  once  entranc'd  his  ear — the  symphony 
Of  many-voiced  nature — the  hoarse  dash 
Of  the  vex'd  wave  afar,  commingling  wild 
With  the  deep  organ-note  of  mountain  pine, 
Swept  by  the  midnight  breeze  ;  the  piping  cry 
Of  the  lone  sea-gull,  speeding  homeward  late — 
All  these,  which  once  mysteriously  chim'd  in 
With  kindred  chords— no  longer  have  response. 

But  hark !  on  the  swart  bosom  of  the  night, 
A  chant  of  voices  dissonant,  comes  forth 
In  the  far  distance — dying  now  away, 
As  the  wind  sweeps  the  wold.     The  surging  wave 
With  clamor  hoarse,  now  breaks  the  swelling  strain, 
Now  gives  a  fit  accompaniment  to  what 
Seems  rather  wild  lament,  than  gleesome  song. 

By  devious  path,  where  late  the  mountain  flood 
Descended  to  the  sea,  where  fir-clad  cliffs 
Arise  on  either  hand,  muffling  his  cloak 


14  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Closely  around  him,  Harald  follows  on, 
To  where  the  chant  arises.     At  his  tread, 
The  sea-mew,  pent  within  the  hollow  cleft, 
Whirrs  screaming  seaward.     Listening  the  dash 
Of  the  fast  ebbing  tide,  with  visage  turn'd 
To  the  late  moon  nearing  th'  Atlantic  wave, 
He  hies  him  on.     Again  the  chant  swells  up 
Nearer  and  nearer,  more  unearthly  wild 
And  fiendish  in  its  wail. 

A  cavern's  mouth, 

Shrouded  with  stunted  yew  and  hemlock  shagg'd, 
Jutting  far  out  into  the  ocean-wave, 
Now  frowns  upon  his  sight.     High  overhead, 
From  its  projecting  brow,  shooting  far  o'er 
The  roaring  surge  beneath,  a  scathed  ash, 
Like  castle-banner  waving  in  the  wind, 
Flouts  the  still  air,  and  'gainst  the  northern  sky, 
Lit  up  w;th  Boreal  blaze,  seems  like  a  blot 
Upon  the  beauteous  visage  of  the  night. 
Wild  screaming  flies  the  ominous  bird  of  prey, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  15 

Rook'd  in  its  top  ;  and  poising  in  the  blast, 
Seeks  the  safe  shelter  of  the  cavern's  mouth. 
Now  with  uncertain  tread,  yet  pausing  oft, 
He  threads  the  mazes  of  the  winding  cave. 
Forth  from  a  crevice,  near  at  hand,  gleams  forth 
A  lurid  light,  like  fen-fire  seen  at  eve 
By  the  late  traveller.     Anon  arise 
Wild  bursts  of  wassail-glee  ;  and  now  full  hoarse, 
A  dirge-like  hollow  voice  evokes  strange  names, 
Uncouth  of  sound  and  utterance. 

On  his  brow 

Thick  dew-drops  stand  ;  while  horror  and  dismay 
Arrest  the  mantling  blood.     And  now,  behold, 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  a  dark  mysterious  rite, 
Plied  by  a  haggard,  wild,  unearthly  crew, 
Confounds  his  gaze. 

Around  a  caldron's  blaze, 
A  motley,  strange-attired  group  is  rang'd, 
With  hands  enlink'd,  and  incantation  dread, 
Like  that  which  Isis'  temple  saw  of  yore, 


16  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Their  shrunken,  fiendish  visages  illum'd 
By  the  blue  flame,  lit  up  with  horrid  joy. 

With  mutter'd  spell,  the  crones  pursue  their  task 
Of  invocation,  throwing  in  the  vase 
Night-gather'd  venom,  fraught  with  noxious  power. 
The  work  complete,  each  dips  her  shrivelPd  arm 
Within  the  kettle,  and  anoints  her  eyes. 
Now  with  triumphant  shout,  joining  their  hands, 
While  the  vast  antre  echoes  through  its  depths, 
With  haggish  yell,  and  harsh  and  uncouth  speech, 
They  dance  around,  with  antic  step  and  swing, 
And  head  awry,  and  gibb'ring  laugh  and  shriek ; — 
And  while  the  wondering  Harald  shrinks  aghast, 
With  sense  astounded,  in  the  sheltering  nook, 
Away  they  scour,  far  bound  on  hellish  deed. 

Transfix'd  with  horror,  and  in  wild  amaze, 
At  what  seems  but  a  phantom,  which  the  night, 
Clad  in  her  many-tissu'd  robe  of  dreams, 
Disported  'fore  his  fear-appalled  sense, 
List'ning  his  bosom's  throb,  he  looks  around, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  17 

And  ever  and  anon,  bewilder'd  asks 
His  horror-stricken  breast,  if  what  he  sees 
Is  of  the  earth  ;  and  now,  with  desperate  step 
He  treads  the  unhallow'd  cave  of  sooty  hue, 
So  lately  trod  by  the  weird  sisterhood. 

O'er  the-  expiring  flame  still  bubbles  up 
The  potent  fluid,  made  up  of  noxious  weed, 
Gather'd  at  midnight  hour  midst  the  wild  moor, 
While  that  the  moon  amidst  the  rifting  clouds, 
Hurrying  impatient  down  the  western  sky, 
Veil'd  her  pale  forehead,  frighted  with  the  deed. 
Within  the  charmed  vase  he  dips,  and  to  his  eyes 
Applies  the  liquid,  when  at  once,  behold ! 
As  if  call'd  up  by  skill  of  necromance, 
Opens  a  new  creation  to  his  sense  ! 

Myriads  of  tiny  forms,  fantastic,  trim, 
Which  'fore  the  eye  oft  sport,  when  th'  o'ertasked  brain 
Would  seek  oblivion  to  world-jaded  thought, 
Wanton  around  him,  gorgeous  in  array  ; 
Transform'd  in  shape,  of  visage  quaint,  whereon 


18  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Sit  mockery  and  spite,  malignant  mirth, 
And  proffer'd  courtesy,  with  eyes  askance, 
That  beam'd  false  homage,  vanity,  and  hate. 
On  elfin  wing,  some  chase  with  hornet-barb 
The  bubbles,  as  they  course  the  caldron's  brink, 
Or  upward  fly  to  catch  the  vapory  wreath, 
Curling  it  back  in  very  wantonness. 
Anon  before  his  gaze  a  figure  flits, 
Beckoning  him  on,  then  vanishes  in  air. 
Again  arise  to  view  gay,  laughing  meads, 
Bright  vales,  and  sunny  glades,  inviting  groves, 
With  branches  arching.     Others  overhead, 
Whose  pendent  boughs  extended  to  his  hand 
Hesperian  fruit  of  various  smell  and  hue, 
Which  as  he  tries  to  pluck,  evanishing, 
Gives  to  his  grasp  the  bur  and  prickly  thorn  ; 
While  from  a  thousand  caves,  re-echoing  wide, 
Bursts  of  infernal  laughter  greet  his  ear. 

Soul-fraught  with  horror,  thro'  the  chasm'd  rock 
He  speeds  his  way.     Meanwhile  the  pale-eyed  moon, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  19 

Sinking  beneath  the  beetling  cliff,  throws  forth 

Shadows  of  giant  length  athwart  his  path. 

Still,  still  the  phantoms  hover  'fore  his  sight, 

Altho'  more  faint,  a&  if  their  filmy  forms 

Cannot  abide  the  broad  and  wholesome  air, 

Which  comes  refreshing  through  the  mountain  gorge, 

Cooling  his  temples. 

In  the  distance,  gleams, 

Furrow'd  with  light,  the  rippling  ocean-surge, 
Darken'd  again  by  the  storm-rifted  cloud, 
Which  course  the  heavens  a  solitary  rack —    ' 
Its  sable  stole  turning  a  silv'ry  fleece 
To  the  wave-seeking  orb  of  far-spent  night  j — 
While  scudding  seaward,  the  lone  fisher's  sail 
Breaks  on  the  dark  ground  of  the  distant  deep. 

Morn  now  is  redd'ning  o'er  the  Dofrine's  brow, 
And  yet  the  mother  trims  the  turret-fire, 
Flashing  far  o'er  the  wave  and  rocky  fell, 
Anxious  and  trembling  for  her  truant  son. 
But  there  is  one,  where  Moa's  waters  flow, 


20  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Whose  vesper-pray'r  and  early  orison 
Ascend  for  him,  so  late  estrang'd  in  thought — 
An  alien  now  to  plighted  love  and  home. 
See,  with  the  dawn  she  saunters  down  the  vale, 
Gathers  the  pansy,  he  was  wont  to  praise, 
And  puts  it  in  her  tress.     Alas,  that  cheek, 
On  which  the  dew-drop  of  the  flower  now  falls, 
Is  wet  already  with  the  tears  of  night. 

And  who  but  woman,  with  endurance  arm'd, 
Her  bosom  an  exhaustless  fount  of  love, 
Can  minister  to  wretchedness  like  his  ? 
O,  'tis  her  heart  alone,  that  in  its  pulse 
Feels  sorrow  throbbing  in  another  heart. 
Man's  pity  greets  in  the  world's  busy  mart ; — 
'Tis  woman  seeks  the  cloister'd  grief  within. 

And  now  his  home  receives  him  ;  with  amaze 
The  parent  sees  strange  horror  in  his  wan 
And  haggard  aspect ;  while  his  restless  eye, 
With  wild  expression,  wanders  round  and  round, 
On  objects  she  beholds  not.     She  who  once 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  21 

Knew  all  the  foldings  of  his  youthful  breast, 

Reads  not  its  secret ;  'tis  mysterious  lore. 

Sleep  comes  ;  but  O,  what  sleep  is  that,  wherein 

Again  in  dark  procession,  pass  the  forms 

Which  waking  vision  gave.     Once  more  stand  forth 

The  wizard-shore,  the  darkly-veiled  moon, 

The  ever  restless,  undulating  deep, 

And  heavens  clad  in  black ;  from  cliff  to  cliff 

He  toils  in  agony  of  soul ;  overlooks 

The  abyss  below,  and  giddy  topples  down 

Full  many  a  fathom  in  the  roaring  tide. 

The  agony  awakes  him  ; — fever'd,  wild, 
He  lifts  him  from  his  brain-distracting  sleep. 
The  sun  rides  high  in  heav'n ;  but  yet  the  mist 
Hangs  in  the  mountain  gorge  a  feath'ry  wreath, 
Disporting  in  fantastic,  varying  form. 

Amidst  the  melody  of  morn,  the  song 
Of  thrush  and  linnet,  piping  merrily, 
And  skylark,  mounting  up  into  the  vault 
Of  the  blue  welkin,  far  above  the  rack 


22  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Of  drifting  cloud — a  speck  in  ether  now  ; 

Amidst  the  matin  song  of  forester, 

Wending  betimes  to  his  accustom'd  toil ; 

The  gay  light-hearted  carolling  of  her, 

Who  tends  the  lowing  kine  by  Guldal's  side ; 

'Midst  all  the  genial  harmony  around, 

Behold  the  high-soul'd  youth,  whose  man  was  wont 

To  look  a-tiptoe  i'  the  far-off  sky 

Of  the  bright  future ; — O  behold  him  now, 

Where  earthward  tending,  like  the  scythed  flower 

He  droops  in  sickliness  of  very  hope. 

Alas,  for  him,  who  walks  the  round  of  life, 
With  mind  o'er  which  the  pall  of  with'ring  doubt 
Hangs  with  its  sable  foldings,  shutting  out 
The  blessed  light  of  heav'n  !    Existence  here 
Weighs  like  an  incubus  upon  the  soul ; 
And  if  at  times  imagination  bring 
Some  gleam  of  sunshine  to  the  shrouded  sense, 
'Tis  but  the  lurid  lightning's  distant  blaze, 
Showing  the  trav'ler  faint  and  far  astray, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  23 

The  frowning  horror  of  the  sky  o'erhead. 

And  this  were  nought,  were  but  the  past  a  blank ; 
But  then,  even  then,  the  sibyl  memory, 
As  if  in  very  mockery  and  spite, 
Holds  up  the  glowing  transcript  of  gone  days, 
And  like  a  fierce  inquisitor,  seeks  out 
The  part  whereon  her  engine  can  inflict 
Severest  torture,  and  applies  it  there. 

Then  in  an  instant,  with  a  light  intense, 
The  past  crowds  in,  disports  and  vanishes. 
Once  more  he  bounds  light-hearted  to  the  chase, 
Pursues  with  spear  the  fold-assailing  wolf, 
And  drags  him  bleeding  from  his  mountain  lair ; 
Or,  in  the  list  caparison'd,  his  casque 
Deck'd  with  the  ostrich  plume  by  Elfreide's  hand, 
With  spear  in  rest,  he  seeks  his  fair  one's  side, 
And  claims  the  guerdon  dearest  to  his  heart. 

And  till  that  hour,  when  that  the  fiend  despair, 
Gave  the  dark  surmise,  whose  soul- withering  blight 
Came  like  a  mildew  o'er  his  spring  of  life, 


24  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Whispering  that  all,  the  future  opened  up 

To  his  enchanted  sight,  was  but  a  lure 

To  cheat  him  into  being — till  that  hour, 

Love,  lore  and  minstrelsy,  a  tissue  bright, 

Wrought  with  hope's  golden  web,  enclasp'd  his  breast 

With  fold  more  ample  than  imperial  robe. 

Look  on  the  wreck  of  empire,  'midst  the  grave 
Of  nations  pause  ;  upturn  the  sculptur'd  stone, 
The  fluted  column,  frieze  or  architrave ; 
Go  view  the  marble  waste,  wherein  the  ghost 
Of  ages  sits,  shrouded  in  silent  gloom  • 
Where  Tadmore,  Thebes,  and  Meroe  repose 
With  cowled  visage,  stooping  low  in  dust, — 
Then  turn  to  where  the  heaven-illumin'd  mind, 
Impress  of  its  divine  original, 
Falls  from  its  pedestal  and  prostrate  lies  ! 

But  lo,  what  object  now  arrests  his  sight ; — 
Who  on  that  grassy  knoll,  where  Moa's  wave 
In  murmur  gushes  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 
With  eye  intent  upon  the  rippling  stream, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  25 

And  yet  in  thought  estrang'd  from  all  around, 
Nor  heeds  his  tread,  nor  marks  his  near  approach  ? 
'Tis  she,  his  Elfreide:  but  how  chang'd  since  last 
They  met  in  GuldaPs  vale,  where  hope  and  joy 
Lit  up  their  mutual  being,  promising 
A  halcyon  sky,  un visited  by  storm. 

Already  at  her  side,  his  arm  enclasps 
Her  drooping  form  ; — she  on  his  shoulder  rests 
Her  lovely  head,  bow'd  down  with  silent  grief, 
Like  hyacinth  surcharg'd  by  low'ring  sky. 

"  My  Elfreide  here  ?  O  tell  why  strayest  thou, 
Far  from  thy  home  ?  thy  cheek  indeed  is  pale." 

"  Harald,  dost  thou  ask  this  ? — but  I'll  not  chide, 
A  stranger-language  comes  from  thy  dark  eye ; 
O,  it  affrights  my  soul  to  see  thee  thus." 

"  But  yesterday,  dear  Elfreide,  though  no  cloud 
Of  visible  grief  rose  'bove  my  horizon, 
I  deem'd  myself  most  wretched  ;  but  O  now, 
I  would  give  worlds,  were  I  as  yesterday  ! 
I've  seen  strange  sights,  have  hied  me  where  yon  sun 


26  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Ne'er  gave  its  blessed  light, — where  orgies  dark — 
Thou  turn'st  away,  dear  love  ?" 

"  Harald,  thy  words 

Freeze  up  my  blood, — I  cannot,  will  not  hear. — 
Come  to  my  parent's  cot ;  or,  rather,  go — 
Go  thou  to  Drontheim,  where  thy  absence  grieves 
A  mother,  who  now  mourns  thee  lost ; — go  where 
Friends,  all  who  love  thee,  are  most  sad,  because 
Of  thy  estrangement.     Shun  that  fatal  shore 
Where  demon-voices  mingle  with  the  roar 
Of  the  vex'd  ocean ;  where  the  Lapland  drum 
Blends  with  the  night-blast." 

"  I  have  left  that  home  ;- 
This  morn  I  left,  or  rather  reach'd  it  then. 
O  Elfreide,  since,  on  yester-eve,  yon  sun 
Sank  'neath  the  wave,  a  brief  of  life  hath  been, — 
Nay  is  inscrib'd  in  fearful  characters 
Here, — here  within." 

"  Is  this  then  Harald,  he 
Whose  fearless  bosom  brav'd  the  fearful  fight 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  27 

Of  Esterdal,  though  then  a  boy,  beside 
His  glorious  Father  !    Harald,  thou  art  o'ertask'd 
With  nightly  vigil ; — leave  thy  books,  and  go 
Into  the  walks  of  men.     Th'  Almighty  asks 
Return  from  minds  enkindled  at  the  source 
Whence  gifted  natures  e'er  derive  their  light ; 
Their  issues  are  in  action ;  for  the  soul 
Must  merge  in  deeds  beneficent,  or  else, 
Like  a  fell  canker  eat  into  itself." 

"  My  Elfreide,  list,  I  have  a  tale  for  thee, 
Which  thou  must  hear.     Last  night,  by  Lenthal's  beach, 
I  saw  the  Lapland  harpies — that  weird  crew — 
Nay,  visited  their  cave  ; — thou  tremblest,  love." 

"  Then,  Harald,  tell  me  all — I  would  know  all ; — 
One  joy,  one  woe,  one  destiny  is  ours." 

"  Their  task  complete,  each  in  a  caldron  dipp'd 
Her  sinewy  arm,  and  to  her  bleared  eyes 
Applied  the  ointment,  and  straight  fled  the  cave. 
I  enter'd,  did  the  same — for  madness  rul'd — 
When  like  a  fever'd  dream,  in  th'  instant  rose 


28  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

To  my  astonish'd  view,  a  hidden  world, 
Divested  of  its  form  and  symmetry. 
And  now  this  earth,  this  vaulted  sky  above, 
Are  as  it  were  but  filmy  shadows,  whence 
Life,  light  and  beauty  have  for  ever  fled." 

"  Harald,  there  is  a  light,  before  whose  beam 
These  shadows  of  thy  now  benighted  soul 
Shall  pass  away ;  as  'fore  yon  blessed  sun 
Have  fled  the  vapors  of  the  mountain  gorge. 

"  Thou  'st  sought  the  fount  of  truth  in  human  lore  ; — 
The  beautiful  in  nature  and  in  art 
Hath  been  revealed  to  thy  favor'd  breast. 
But  deemest  thou  the  stream  of  minstrelsy 
Shall  quench  the  thirst  of  thy  immortal  part  ? 
No,  nothing  short  of  Heaven  can  minister 
To  the  deep  yearnings  of  the  undying  spirit. 
The  dove  of  peace,  whose  outstretch'd  wing  hath  pois'd 
O'er  the  dark  wave  of  soul-submerging  doubt, 
Can  find  a  rest — where  rest  is  only  found. 
We  will  together  hie  to  yonder  glebe, 


ELFREIDEOF      GULDAL.  29 

Where  the  ag'd  father  of  his  people  bides 
Close  to  the  spire  of  his  lov'd  minster  ; — there, 
With  one  who  has  from  youth  to  rev'rend  eld 
Held  conusance  with  pray'r  and  with  his  God, 
Shall  we  hold  converse  and  communion  sweet." 

Near  where  the  mountain-torrent,  over  crag 
And  fallen  forest  of  gigantic  growth, 
Impatient  leaps  to  join  the  seaward  Moa, 
Dwelt  the  sage  Guisco.     From  Ausonian  strand — 
The  land  of  Petrarch,  Dante,  and  Boccace — 
In  early  youth  he  sought  Norwegian  wilds, 
Bound  on  the  blessed  embassy  of  love. 

In  leech-craft  wise ;  well  skilPd  to  minister 
To  ills  which  rack  the  flesh  ;  more  skill'd  to  raise 
The  falt'ring  spirit,  and  to  point  to  where 
The  wanderer  of  earth  can  find  repose. 

Fast  by  the  trodden  path  of  wayfarer, 
Hieing  from  Guldal  to  the  distant  hills, 
Or  to  the  neighboring  Drontheim,  full  in  view, 
Stood  forth  his  humble  thatch  ;  and  yet  I  ween, 


30  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Nor  wanting  was  it  in  romantic  charm, 

Or  sylvan  beauty.     There  the  clustering  elm, 

Woodbine,  anemone,  and  hawthorn  bright, 

And  azale,  which  courts  the  northern  blast, 

Hung  round  the  holm,  and  wooed  the  inmate's  gaze. 

There  too,  the  missil-thrush,  and  woodlark  shy, 
The  throstle  and  the  linnet  lent  their  notes, 
And  glanc'd  at  early  morn  from  spray  to  spray  ; 
Or  'neath  the  pent-roof  thatch,  screen'd  from  the  blast 
Of  the  keen  nightwind,  gave  their  vesper-hymn, 
And  sooth'd  the  tenant  of  the  humble  roof. 

High  overhead  the  various-tinctur'd  rock, 
With  moisture  trickling  down  its  glist'ning  slope, 
Upholds  with  its  sharp  cliff,  or  fissure  deep, 
The  berry-bearing  ivy,  eglantine, 
And  many-color'd  lichen  ;  while  remote, 
Seen  in  the  distance,  as  if  motionless, 
Adown  the  deep  ravine,  the  rushing  brook 
Seems  like  a  silvery  ribbon,  sportive  hung 
Against  the  purple  of  the  Dofrine's  brow. 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  31 

The  sheltering  porch  and  ground-sill'd  lattice  op'd 
On  the  broad  pathway,  as  if  welcoming 
The  wearied  pilgrim,  or  the  tuneful  Scald, 
Or  Norland  fisher,  wayworn  and  forespent 
With  nightly  toil,  amid  the  north-sea  wave ; 
Or  him  who  seeks  for  counsel  for  the  ills 
Which  bide  earth's  children. 

Guisco,  even  then, 

Clad  in  serge-tunic,  with  his  palmer  staff, 
Was  issuing  forth — bound  for  far  eastern  hills. 
With  mutual  hail  and  kindly  greeting,  such 
As  to  like  natures  are  th'  electric  spark 
Pervading  kindred  beings,  soon  their  souls 
Are  fus'd  in  one ;  and  seated  now,  full  soon, 
Harald,  with  faltering  voice  and  troubled  mien, 
Thus  questions  of  what  chief  concerned  his  state. 

"  And  what  deem'st  thou,  sage  Guisco,  have  the  things 
Term'd  sensible,  which  seem  to  th'  outward  eye, 
Presentments  of  the  fair  and  beautiful 
Of  nature  and  of  art — have  they  a  being — 


32  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Possess  they  truly  a  locality, 
Or  are  they  phantoms — strangely  conjur'd  up 
By  some  mysterious  process  of  the  spirit — 
A  spirit  formative  of  all  which  here 
Allure  us  on,  and  cheat  us  into  life  ?" 

To  whom  thus  Guisco — lost  in  wonder  long, 
While  his  clasp'd  hands,  resting  upon  his  staff, 
Upholds  his  visage — whence,  depending,  flow'd 
His  lengthen'd  beard,  in  patriarchal  guise. 

"  From  off  this  height,  which  looks  o'er  fiord  and  fell, 
Cast  thy  eye  seaward,  Harald,  and  behold 
On  yonder  wave,  which  to  the  noon-tide  sun 
Lifts  up  its  whiten'd  crest,  yon  gallant  bark, 
Shaping  its  course  for  Vineland's  distant  shore. 
See  how  she  cleaves  her  way,  like  to  a  thing 
Instinct  with  life,  tho'  mountain  billows  rise, 
And  adverse  tempests  overlay  her  path. 

"  And  why  is  this  ?    because  in  the  blue  heav'ns, 
At  times  the  pilot  sees  yon  orb  of  light ; 
And  when  night  low'rs,  beholds  the  starry  host, 


ELFREIDE      OF     GULDAL.  33 

That  lights  the  pole.     And  tho',  midst  seasons  dark, 
Even  these  are  shroud^l  from  his  outward  sense, 
And  terrors  lurk  around,  like  ambush'd  foes ; — 
Yet,  'fore  his  eye  of  faith,  the  headland  bright, 
Crowning  with  azure-peak  the  wave-girt  isle, 
Rises  to  view.     On  this,  and  this  alone 
His  moral  vision  fastens ;  and  his  soul, 
In  fealty  to  what  is  here  reveaPd, 
Has  prelibation  of  a  joy  to  come, 
And  revels  in  the  present. 

Thus,  my  son — 

Thus,  like  the  iris-bow,  exalting  faith 
Rises  to  heaven,  yet  rests  its  arch  on  earth. 

"  And  he  that  treads  this  sun-encircling  sphere, 
With  soul  attun'd  to  the  rich  symphonies, 
Which  burst  from  all  the  creatures  God  hath  made, — 
Whate'er  of  beautiful,  sublime,  or  fair 
Salutes  his  sense — a  revelation  bright — 
Looks  out  upon  a  world,  which  lies  around, 
And  feels  a  world  correlative  within. 


34  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Forth  from  the  bosom's  fount  the  current  flows 
Of  man's  allotted  bliss.     True,  ifcis  fed 
By  issues  from  above,  pure,  undefil'd, 
Life-giving ; — but  the  heart,  with  guilt  perturb'd, 
Sends  up  its  ooze  ;  and  none  but  Him  who  once 
Still'd  the  strong  tempest's  rage,  and  bade  it  calm, 
Can  clear  that  fount  and  make  it  bright  again." 

"  And  what,  sage  Guisco,  if  things  visible 
Give  dissonance — not  music  to  the  soul ; 
Hold  forth  misshapen  forms  and  semblances, 
Which  cheat  the  sense,  and  turn  this  world  within 
Into  a  chaos  of  distemper'd  dreams  ? 
Last  night,  on  Lenthal's  beach — " 

"  Harald,  forbear, J: 

Guisco  exclaim'd  ;  "  even  now  thy  parent's  lip 
Hath  giv'n  the  purport  of  thy  fever'd  dream. 
These  are  the  phantoms  the  distemper'd  brain 
And  craz'd  affections  conjure  up.     To  him — 
The  troubled  king  of  Israel,  fear-perturb'd, — 
Stood  forth  thp.  seer,  portraying  to  his  sense 


ELFREIDE     OF     GULDAL.  35 

Things  that  consorted  with  his  troubled  spirit. 

"  The  being  'thrall'd  by  doubt  or  dark  dismay, 
Draws  his  own  wizard-circle,  where  within, 
Thrust  by  his  coward  fears,  he  stands  appall'd 
With  will  subdued  and  resolution  crush'd, 
As  if  bound  down  by  triple  bars  of  steel. 

"  The  blessed  One  who  visited  this  earth, 
Came  not  a  disembodied  Spirit  here, 
But  came  a  Being  cloth'd  with  attributes, 
Which  b'long  to  man — and  here  gave  evidence, 
Both  by  his  ministry  and  works  of  love, 
That  Heav'n  demands  return  for  talent  given. 
— And  whilst  thou  findest  thou  canst  interfuse 
Thy  moral  life-blood  in  a  kindred  being, 
In  this  or  future  age,  woulds't  thou  apart, 
Brood  o'er  the  visions  of  thy  sickly  brain, 
Or  look  to  Heaven  for  aid,  and  bravely  do  ?" 


ELFREIDE   OP  GULDAL. 


PART  II. 

'Tis  night ; — a  chieftain  in  the  Danish  garb 
Leaps  from  his  skiff,  moor'd  closely  to  the  shore, 
Upon  the  crag  of  Hevno's  lonely  strand. 
A  soldier  in  attire,  and  yet  he  bears 
Within  his  belt  the  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 
While  o'er  his  shoulder  floats  a  sable  scarf, 
From  which  his  scrip  and  cimbric  harp  depend. 
His  shallops  ride  at  anchor  in  the  cove, 


38  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Screen 'd  by  the  lofty  cliff,  high  beetling  o'er, 
From  sight  of  inland  wand'rer  at  that  hour, 
Who  at  the  glimpse  of  foeman's  craft  or  sail, 
Had  spread  alarm  throughout  Norwegian  wilds. 

Along  the  rock-girt  shore,  the  sharp-prow'd  skiff, 
Toss'd  by  the  surge,  is  tenantless,  save  where 
The  osprey  and  the  vulture  fierce  contend 
With  the  loud  watch-dog. 

On  the  ocean-skirt. 

The  herring-fisher,  midst  the  Froe'n  sea, 
Hurling  his  net.  stands  out  in  bright  relief, 
Lit  by  the  polar  blaze,  far  stretching  out 
Against  the  Dofrine's  height.     From  time  to  time, 
As  the  long  mesh,  fraught  with  its  finny  spoil, 
Moves  through  the  deep,  the  moor-ild  flashing  up, 
Gives  forth  a  sea  of  fire,  wild  issuing  forth 
In  bright  effulgence  from  the  weltering  deep. 

And  see,  he  climbs  the  steep,  clears  the  deep  gorge, 
Bounds  with  impatient  step  o'er  shelving  rocks, 
And  gains  the  flowery  turf;  where,  'fore  his  step, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  39 

The  lev'ret  starts,  surpris'd  with  visitant 
At  an  unwonted  hour ;  and  falcon,  perch'd 
Upon  the  oaken-bough,  watching  his  prey, 
Shoots  with  wide-spreading  wing  into  the  dell. 

His  front  bespeaks  one  wont  to  lead  the  way 
In  perilous  strife  and  deed  of  hardihood. 
His  stature  noble  ; — with  determin'd  tread 
He  climbs  the  swelling  knolls ; — and  now  within 
The  silent  vale  of  Guldal — sleeping  calm 
Beneath  the  moonbeam  of  a  summer-night, 
Follows  the  winding  of  its  beauteous  stream. 

'Tis  Sigurd  of  Aarhuus,  who  with  his  sire 
Led  forth  the  Danish  host  at  Esterdal. 
Made  captive  by  brave  Haco,  they  receiv'd 
Beneath  the  chieftain's  roof  that  courtesy, 
The  gentle  valiant  can  alone  extend 
To  the  brave  vanquish'd.     There,  the  stripling  chiefs, 
But  yesterday  opposed  in  fight,  forgot 
Their  mutual  feud ;  confed'rate  now  in  sport, 
In  joust,  in  vent'rous  chase ;  or,  when  the  nighl 


40  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Had  shut  out  all  those  spirit-stirring  scenes, 
Which  prompt  the  impulse  of  gay,  buoyant  youth,- 
Some  saga  wild,  whose  soul-exciting  theme 
Was  of  the  vy-king's  deeds,  or  foray  bold 
Of  Norseman  on  the  far  Northumbrian  strand  ; 
Or  rite  of  Lapland  witch,  or  Finnish  seer, 
Employed  full  well  the  hour. 

And  now  the  theme 

Was  of  the  kraaken  huge,  by  shipman  seen, 
Rolling  in  spiral  fold,  outstretching  far, 
Like  isle  emergent  from  the  briny  deep. 

Anon,  the  converse  rous'd  to  bolder  mood, 
Kindling  within  the  breast  high  swelling  hope 
Of  bold  emprise  ;  telling  of  him,  the  great, 
The  glorious  Wallace,  who  but  late  stood  forth 
For  Scotia's  rights,  'gainst  the  Plantagenet. 
And  of  the  Bruce,  who  prov'd  at  Bannockburn 
That  though  the  patriot  perish,  yet  his  blood, — 
Far  more  prolific  than  the  seed  of  earth, — 
Like  dragon  teeth,  sow'd  in  his  country's  soil, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  41 

Gives  forth  a  Cadmean  host  of  kindred  souls. 

And  thus  the  night  wax'd  late,  while  on  the  hearth, 
The  blazing  fir-fire  o'er  baronial  hall, 
Where  hung  the  escutcheons  of  a  by-gone  race, 
Flash'd  with  uncertain  light,  and  gave  the  hour 
A  shadowy  spell,  that  quicken'd  fancy  more. 

;Twas  then  in  Guldal's  vale  that  Sigurd  saw 
The  maid,  who  held  in  thrall  young  Harald's  breast ; 
And  in  that  kindly  intercourse  of  soul, 
Which  prompts  ingenuous  natures,  he  had  heard 
From  Harald's  own  impassion'd  lips  of  her 
In  whom  his  hopes  were  centred — and  had  learn'd 
One  mutual  love  had  seal'd  their  destiny. 
— He  saw,  and  in  his  breast  a  passion  rose, 
Which  wrong'd  his  friend ;  for  no  ennobling  aim 
Exalted  Sigurd's  nature.     Even  then, 
The  germ  of  perfidy  inwrought,  conceiv'd 
That  purpose,  which  long  years  had  caus'd  to  bud. 

Full  soon  the  captives  for  the  Cimbrian  shore 
Gladly  made  sail ;  for  gen'rous  Haco  now 


42  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

No  ransom  ask'd, — claiming  as  future  guests 
Whom  his  roof  shelter'd,  and  his  board  receiv'd. 
Eager  they  leap'd  forth  on  their  natal  soil, 
Where  joyous  vassals  greeted  their  return. 

Years  pass'd — yet  intervening  seasons  serv'd 
To  nurse  in  Sigurd's  breast  th'  ignoble  flame, 
And  prompt  ungen'rous  schemes.     Th'  occasion  soon 
Dawn'd  on  the  night  of  his  perfidious  thought — 
Like  beacon-light ;  and  his  aspiring  hope 
Bounded  towards  the  fair  Norwegian  spoil, 
And  felt  it  in  his  grasp; — for  Eric  now, 
Who  sway'd  the  Danish  sceptre,  burn'd  t'  efface 
The  shame  of  Esterdal ;  and  pointed  where 
Drontheim's  proud  tow'rs  frown'd  o'er  the  fiord  of  Nide. 

And  gladly  Sigurd  seized  the  proffer  given, 
To  lead  the  Cimbri  forth  to  northern  shores ; 
And  soon  the  armament  with  hoisted  sail, 
Wafted  by  favoring  breeze,  bounds  o'er  the  wave, 
And  eager  press  for  Scandia's  rock-girt  coast. 

As  near'd  the  fleet  at  eve  the  well-known  fiord, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  43 

Instant  the  thought  flash'd  home  on  Sigurd's  soul — 
And  his  impatient  spirit  grasp'd  the  thought — 
Even  then  amidst  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
To  learn  if  Guldal's  valley  yet  possess'd 
The  object  of  his  mission, — the  fair  flower 
Whom  he  would  bear  in  triumph  to  his  home. 
Lo,  as  his  agile  tread,  with  the  rapt  thought, 
As  is  the  wont,  keeps  pace,  before  his  eye 
A  strangely  lurid  mist,  lit  by  the  moon — 
Now  hurrying  thro'  the  heav'ns,  comes  sweeping  on 
Afore  the  breeze  of  night,  towards  the  shore, 
Adown  the  vale,  and  overthwart  his  path. 
Onward  it  moves  ;  and  now  full  near,  behold 
Flimsy  and  shadowy  forms,  whose  visages 
Swart  and  unearthly,  sinistrous  and  wild, 
Consort  with  the  dread  hour  ;  their  garments  wide 
Float  on  the  night- wind  j  as  the  north-sea  scud, 
Seen  by  the  affrighted  fisher,  sweeping  on 
Before  the  tempest.    Then,  with  one  consent, 
Each  lifts  her  arm,  and  with  sepulchral  voice, 


44  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

"  Sigurd  of  Aarhuus,  stay  thee,  ere  too  late  ; 
Or  woe  betide  thee  on  Norwegian  strand  !" 

"  Away,  ye  hell-brood  !"  shouts  the  furious  Dane, 
While  his  high-throbbing  heart  and  pallid  brow 
Confess,  that  even  Sigurd  stands  appall'd, — 
"  Away,  or  this  good  steel  shall  tell  thee  soon, 
Ye  croaking  hags  of  night,  whom  thou  would'st  daunt." 

"  Rash  braggart  boy,  put  up  thy  weapon,  which 
Cleaves  the  air  idly  ; — hark  !  we  tell  thee,  Dane, 
Ere  morrow's  sun  shall  set,  thou'lt  need  its  proof, 
Where  arms  shall  hurtle." 

"  Harpies, — hence — away." 

"  Nay  Sigurd, — boast  not ; — lo,  we  tell  thee,  Dane, 
A  woman's  scarf,  waved  to  the  breeze,  ere  long, 
Like  lightning-scath,  shall  overthrow  thy  host, 
E'en  as  these  shreds  we  rend  ; — beware — beware  !" 

Scarce  had  they  said,  when  from  their  shrivell'd  lips 
Issued  a  deaf'ning  yell,  and  then  with  shriek 
Like  to  the  owlet's  fearful  screech,  they  flee, 
As  a  dark  vapor  on  the  winds  of  night. 


ELFREIDE     OF      GULDAL.  45 

The  cot  is  reached  ; — a  fairy  bower,  enclos'd 
In  bosky  dell,  encompass'd  all  around 
With  treillage  of  bright  clasping  columbine. 
The  restless  aspen  and  the  tassel'd  beech, 
Sway'd  by  the  night-breeze,  turn  their  trembling  leaves 
To  the  cold  moonbeam ;  while  the  silv'ry  Moa, 
Winding  its  gentle  current,  murmurs  by, 
And  gives  its  vespers  to  the  stars  o'erhead. 

A  wand'ring  scald,  benighted  in  the  vale, 
Foredone  with  length  of  way  and  pilgrimage, 
Asks  for  a  lodge.     The  aged  mother  hears 
The  minstrel's  plea,  renews  thj  expiring  blaze, 
Spreads  the  neat  board, — then  shows  the  pallet  near. 

Meanwhile  he  proffers  to  fair  Elfreide's  ear 
A  saga  wild,  of  hap  or  battle  done 
In  "distant  age,  on  Neustria's  strand  afar. 
Lo !  as  with  sinewy  arm  uplift,  he  grasps 
The  gilded  harp,  his  cloak  disparting  shows 
Beneath  its  folds  a  warrior's  garb.     The  maid 
Instant  beholds,  restrains  her  rising  fear ; 


46  ELFREIDE     OF      GULDAL. 

"  Minstrel,"  she  says,  "  thy  cloak  and  accent  tell 
Thee  of  the  Cimbric  race ;  how  is't,  that  thou, 
Amidst  these  valleys,  pliest  the  scaldic  art, 
And  with  our  gifted  bards  contend'st  in  song  ?" 

From  off  his  brow,  till  now  half  hid,  he  lifts 
The  fur-clad  bonnet.     Elfreide  straight,  beholds 
The  well  known  features  of  the  treacherous  Dane. 

"  Sigurd,  is't  thou  ?  at  this  unwonted  hour, 
And  in  this  guise,  which  shows  no  friendly  part, 
Seek'st  thou  an  entrance  in  our  cottage  home  ?" — 

"  Elfreide,  'tis  no  mean  errand  brings  me  here  ; 
Sigurd  of  Aarhuus  kneels  before  that  one, 
Who  holds  in  thrall  his  being.    O,  then  list, — 
List,  maid  of  Guldal ;  turn  not  thou  away 
From  him,  whom  years  of  absence  far  from  thee, 
Have  made  the  more  thy  captive.    'Tis  the  suit 
Of  one  whose  happ'ness  is  at  thy  behest. 
From  Denmark's  king  on  embassy,  I  come 
To  seek  thee,  Elfreide,  and  conduct  thee  hence. 
Honor  and  royal  favor, — courtly  dome 


ELFREIDE     OF     GULDAL.  47 

Await  thee,  maiden,  born  to  deck  a  throne." 

"And  com'st  thou  thus,  O  Sigurd,  to  prefer 
Thy  suit,  and  at  this  hour  ?"  the  maid  replies ; 
For  well  her  thoughts  devise,  his  mission  there 
Portended  ill  to  Norway.     "  With  a  fleet 
Of  twice  ten  ships,  a  numerous  gallant  crew, 
Now  riding  in  the  Nide,  hither  I  come, 
In  fealty  to  her  whose  word  is  life." 

"  Is  it  a  proof  of  knighthood,  at  this  hour, — 
When  Norway  holds  alliance  with  thy  king, 
Resting  in  faith  upon  a  solemn  league  ; — 
Wouldst  thou,  at  this  still  hour,  basely  invade 
A  city  sleeping  in  the  arms  of  peace  ? 
Dreading  no  stratagem,  or  fierce  assault 
From  coward- foe,  who  shuns  the  light  of  day  ; 
And  on  the  fold,  steals  like  the  prowling  wolf! — 
At  least,  would'st  woo  me  as  a  hero,  Sigurd." 

"  Thou  wrong'st  me,  Elfreide ;  Sigurd  wars  not  thus  ; 
We  shall  do  battle  in  the  eye  of  day. 
But  I  would  shield  thee,  Elfreide,  from  the  shock 


48  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Which  bides  to-morrow's  sun,  and  place  thee,  where 
Honor  and  deference  shall  attend." 

«  Not  so," 

Elfreide  replies,  while  in  her  crimson'd  cheek, 
Determin'd  eye,  and  firm  erected  mien, 
The  soul  heroic  of  old  Norway  speaks. 
"  Not  so ;  for  honor,  life,  and  every  hope, 
All  have  their  issues  in  my  country  !     Nay, 
Unhand  me,  Sigurd  ! — hence,  depart, — or  now 
Guldal  shall  wake,  and  thou  escapest  not." 

There  is  a  heav'n-imparted  effluence, 
A  panoply  of  light  to  virtue  given, 
Which  when  it  speaks  out  from  a  woman's  soul, 
Comes  forth  in  utt'rance  like  an  angel-voice, 
Appalling  and  arresting  brutal  force. 

This  Sigurd  feels,  when  with  astounded  look 
At  what  seems  more  than  mortal  prowess,  he, 
Like  the  foil'd  tiger,  baffl'd  of  his  prey, 
Mutt'ring  revenge,  reluctantly  retires. 

'Tis  midnight  past ;  the  winds  are  up,  and  fast 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  49 

The  cloud-rack  from  the  mountain  summit  scuds 
Athwart  the  vale,  and  hoarse  the  forest  roars. 
With  strength  wrought  up  by  fearful  consciousness, 
That  Drontheim's  fate — her  more  than  life — was  pois'd 
Upon  the  issues  of  that  awful  night, — 
Wrapp'd  in  her  mantle,  lo  she  rushes  forth, 
Clad  in  the  strength  of  Heav'n-directed  might. 

Her  woman's  heart  beats  quick,  but  yet  the  soul 
Gives  to  her  fragile  form  th'  elastic  spring 
Of  mountain  antelope.     Lit  by  the  light 
Of  an  uncertain  moon,  and  silv'ry  sheen 
Of  vap'ry  rifts,  she  seeks  the  river's  bank, 
Frees  the  light  skiff,  quick  shoots  the  placid  Moa, 
And  now  is  pressing  on  for  Drontheim's  towers. 

Nor  does  she  bide  the  time,  but  with  shrill  voice, 
That  makes  the  mountain-echoes  give  response, 
"  Wake  ye,"  she  cries.     "  Ye  Norsemen  !  on  the  coast 
The  foeman  rides  ; — they  make  for  Drontheim's  walls." 

And  now  on  Selhoe,  the  signal  flame 
Lights  up  the  Dofrine's  snowy  height,  whose  peak 


50  ELFREIDE     OF      GULDAL. 

Gives  back  the  light  on  dark  ravine  and  dell. 
Frosten  and  Stranded,  Stenwick — even  the  isles 
Of  distant  Froen  answer  with  their  fires, 
Whose  blaze  reflected,  tells  the  pirate  foe, 
Norway  is  up,  with  heart  and  weapon  true  ! 

The  citadel  is  reach'd,  reposing  calm, 
Like  the  lone  sea-bird  on  the  northern  wave, 
Not  deeming  of  the  ice-floe  hov'ring  nigh, — 
But  at  the  voice  of  Elfreide,  it  awakes. 
Loud  sounds  the  well-known  bugle  o'er  the  hills, 
Echoing  among  the  vales  and  dark  ravines. 
Burgher  and  huntsman,  even  he  who  plies 
His  craft  upon  the  fiord — all,  all  are  up. 
The  forester  and  herdsmam,  stripling  and  aged 
Are  buckling  on,  and  answering  to  the  call. 
— Harald  is  there  and  doing  ; — quick  he  flies 
From  rank  to  rank,  giving,  receiving  cheer 
From  hearts  responsive  ;  but  the  fearful  thought 
Of  Elfreide  lone,  far  from  her  cottage-home, 
Leads  him  to  seek  her,  ere  he  takes  the  field. 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  51 

Encircled  by  a  youthful  band,  she  stands — 
A  seraph  sent  to  rescue, — and  imparts 
To  her  aged  parent  at  her  side,  led  there 
By  followers  sent,  a  soul-sustaining  faith, 
That  He  who  to  a  people  thus  imparts 
Assurance  firm,  will  give  the  victory. 

But  hark  !   in  distance  faintly  heard,  the  sound 
Of  mountain-bugle  wakes  the  echoing  vale ; 
And  louder  yet  the  pealing  notes  ascend  ; 
Till  from  afar,  as  if  in  meet  array, 
Is  heard  the  tramp  of  coursers,  hast'ning  on. 
Selhoe's  hill-top  now  gives  forth  to  view 
A  squadron  dense,  with  banner  floating  wide, 
Speeding  towards  the  glen  ;  until  full  near, 
The  neigh  of  steed,  and  shout  of  martial  host, 
Call  forth  new  ardor  in  each  Norseman's  soul, 
Hast'ning  from  glen  and  dingle  far  and  near. 
With  greetings  loud  they  cheer  : 

«  Hail !  Harald,  hail ! 
We  seek  thee,  son  of  Haco, — lo,    the  Dane 


52  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

With  twice  ten  sail,  make  for  the  fiord,  and  rear 
On  the  tall  mast  the  raven-gonfalon ! 
For  Drontheim's  tow'rs  they  steer.     We  follow,  where 
The  battle  waits." 

Quickly  he  turns,  beholds 
His  Elfreide  pale,  yet  firm,  with  soul  prepared. 
"  Heav'n  gives  thee  vict'ry,  Harald,"  lo,  she  cries, 
"  Look  thou  to  Heav'n  for  aid,  and  bravely  do." 
Were  the  bless'd  words  thou  heard'st  from  Guisco's  lips. 
I  go  not  home.     From  Melhuus'  hill,  these  eyes 
Shall  see  the  conflict ;  and,  victorious  there, 
Behold  thy  banner  wave,  where  Scandia's  arm 
Drives  back  these  Danish  wolves." 

One  short  embrace — 

No  more ; — he  dons  the  profTer'd  casque  and  mail, 
Grasps  Haco's  weapon,  plac'd  within  his  hand, 
And  with  his  gallant  comrades  seeks  the  foe. 

Full  soon  they  meet, — for  on  the  rocky  shore, 
From  the  black  ships  leap  forth  the  eager  Dane, 
Form  the  array,  and  with  a  shout  press  on. 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  53 

$  ' 

A  chieftain  leads,  of  lofty  form  and  port, 
With  helm  and  cuirass  panoplied,  and  fierce 
Points  with  his  spear  to  Drontheim's  distant  spires. 

"  Sigurd  of  Aarhuus,"  is  the  signal  cry, 

"  Sigurd  of  Aarhuus,"  shout  they  in  reply  ; 
And  clash  their  arms  and  raise  the  yell.     The  clang 
Of  Cimbrian  drum  and  trumpet  swell  on  high, 
As  on  they  press  to  seize  the  proffer'd  spoil. 

Down  rush,  with  deafening  shout,  the  fiery  host 
Of  Norway's  chivalry ;  'tis  Harald  leads, 
'Tis  Harald's  voice  which  gives  the  signal-word, 
'Tis  Harald's  eagle  eye  that  points  the  way, 
And  nerves  each  breast  with  that  assurance,  e'er 
The  presage  of  success  or  glorious  death  ! 

But  then  'tis  Dane  that  grapples  with  the  Norse  ; 
Here  all  is  peril'd  on  the  issue, — there 
'Tis  conquest,  or  an  ignominious  death. 

As  tow'ring  icebergs  'midst  the  Arctic  deep, 
Driven  by  polar  tempest,  meet  and  crash 
With  force  terrific — so  to  together  rush 


54  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

ThJ  infuriate  combatants. 

But  see,  afar. 

On  Melhuus'  summit  is  a  woman's  form, 
Who  seems  to  give  her  pennon  to  the  breeze. 
Is  she  of  earth  ?  or  is't  a  visitant 
From  fields  of  light,  on  blessed  mission  sent — 
The  tutelary  saint  of  Norway's  shore  ? 

Aloft  in  air  the  sky- woof 'd  tissue  floats  ; — 
Harald  beholds,  and  with  triumphant  shout, 
That  strikes  a  terror  in  the  adverse  host, 
Points  with  his  sword  to  where  his  Elfreide  stands. 

The  Danes,  fear-stricken,  see  an  angel-one 
Lighted  on  earth,  for  Norway's  rescue  sent ; 
They  turn,  they  fly  to  reach  their  stranded  barks. 
In  vain  does  Sigurd  raise  his  war-note  high, 
And  rally  for  the  fight,  and  desp'rate  cleave 
The  fugitives  to  earth. 

"  Recreants,"  he  shouts, 
"  Redeem  the  flight,  and  vict'ry  still  is  ours ; 
Turn  ye  and  die  !  would  meet  a  coward's  grave  ? 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  55 

Sigurd  of  Aarhuus  !  on — for  Denmark,  on  !" 

"  Harald  of  Norway  greets,"  a  warrior  shouts ; 
"  Here,  Sigurd,  here  is  quarry  for  thy  steel." 

"  Thou'rt  welcome,  Harald,  we  shall  seal  the  day. 
Yet — as  erewhile  thy  guest — as  one  whose  board 
Sigurd  hath  shar'd,  he  wars  not  with  thee,  Harald ; — 
Another  arm  shall  meet  the  sword  thou  wield'st." 

"  Then  as  thy  liege  and  lord  in  former  feud — 
Since  unredeem'd  we  gave  thee  to  thy  home — 
We  charge  thee,  Sigurd,  yield  thee.     Thou  shalt  find, 
Whom  thou  hast  deeply  wrong'd,  again  can  pardon." 

"  Battle  gives  conquest  and  not  suzerainty," 
Sigurd  replies  ; — "  but  were  it  as  thou  say'st, 
The  vassal  who,  and  who  the  suzeraine-chief, 
Since  thou  wilt  have  it  so,  this  very  hour 
The  cast  of  battle  shall  decide  ; — the  deed 
Of  violated  plight," 

"  Sigurd,  is  thine," 

The  son  of  Haco  answers.     "  Durst  thou  speak 
Of  violated  plight,  who  yesternight — 


56  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

As  wand'ring  scald  benighted  in  the  vale — 

Sought  even  then  to  seize  a  precious  prize, 

Whom  all  thy  sov'reign's  treasures  cannot  purchase  ?" 

"  Then  as  thou  listest,"  Sigurd  fierce  returns, 
"  Or  thou  or  I  shall  rue  it ;  here's  to  thee." 
He  said,  and  clos'd  in  fight,  and  bleeding  falls 
'Neath  the  red  sword  of  glorious  Haco's  son. 

'Tis  now  that  Norway's  vengeance  rises  high, 
And  cleaves  the  fugitives  to  earth  ; — in  vain 
They  rally  for  the  fight ;  death  meets  them  there ; — 
None  reach  the  shore  ;  the  few  give  up  the  strife, 
And  yield  them  captive  to  the  victor  host. 

For  Drontheim  march,  tho'  slow,  the  conquerors, 
Cumber'd  with  dead  and  wounded,  whom  they  bear 
On  hurdles,  where  their  vestments  spread,  afford 
To  those  who  live,  repose  ; — all  turn  to  where 
The  guardian  genius  of  the  day  once  stood, 
And  gave  the  victory  ;  and  Melhuus7  steep 
Receives  the  fealty  of  grateful  hearts. 
With  banner,  sword,  and  spear  waving  aloft, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  57 

Thrice  does  the  cheer  e'en  from  the  sufFrers  rise. 
For  «  Elfreide  !  Elfreide  !   angel  of  the  fight !" 

It  is  a  festal  day  ;  the  villagers 
From  glen  and  valley  throng  ;   and  every  copse 
And  mountain  dell,  and  neighb'ring  ocean-cliff, 
Pours  forth  its  tenants  ; — joy  shines  forth  in  all ; — 
The  vet'ran  chief  and  hardy  mountaineer 
Blend  salutations;   while  around,  on  high, 
The  welkin  rings  with  blessings  and  acclaim 
Of  aged  father  •   and  the  unhoused  dame, 
The  gay-coiff'd  lass,  the  stripling,  and  the  churl, 
Priest,  pedler,  boor,  fantastic  mountebank, 
All  press  for  Drontheirn  ;    where  the  pageant  rite 
Awaits  the  conquerors,  now  entering 
Beneath  triumphal  arch  the  portal  wide. 

From  castellated  dome  and  minster-spire, 
Norwegian  banners  float  upon  the  breeze  ; — 
And,  as  the  martial  pageant  wends  its  way 
Through  the  dense  mass,  array'd  on  either  hand, 
In  motley  costume  or  in  sober  garb, 


58  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Matron  and  maid,  and  lovely  childhood,  strew, 
From  arms  outstretch'd,  athwart  the  warriors'  path, 
Flowers  of  bright  hue  and  garlands  freshly  wrought. 

And  now  way-worn,  in  weary  plight,  they  reach 
Drontheim's  embattled  towers,  whose  vestibule, 
Replete  with  vet'ran  chiefs  and  sages  grave, 
Awaits  their  entrance.     But  why  stands  aghast, 
With  horror-stricken  brow,  the  youthful  chief? 
What  sight  transforms,  as  scath'd  with  lightning-shaft, 
The  port  of  valor  into  craven  fear  ? — 

4t 

'Tis  she,  the  Hecate  of  yesternight — 
To  his  enchanted  sight  alone  reveal'd  ; 
Bearing  the  semblance  of  a  crippled  dame 
To  other  eyes  around. — With  gasping  dread, 
See  how  his  falcon-gaze  is  fixed  on  hers, 
'Like  the  charm'd  bird  within'the  cursed  thrall 
O'  the  deadly  viper,  coiling  to  inflict 
His  venom'd  fang ; — when  lo,  from  basket-store, 
Into  the  air  she  hurls  what  seems  to  be 
Offering  of  grateful  incense  to  the  brave. 


ELFREIDE     OF     GULDAL.  59 

Full  on  his  temple  falls  the  fragrant  spoil ; 
When  in  an  instant, — O  bless'd  instant,  fraught 
With  joy  unspeakable — from  off  his  soul 
Falls  the  dark  shroud  of  grief,  as  darkness  flies 
Before  the  uprisen  morn. 

The  calenture 

Of  the  craz'd  brain,  and  woe-surcharged  breast 
I'  th'  instant's  gone  ;  and  the  full  tide  of  life 
Makes  its  bright  way,  like  to  the  mighty  gush 
Of  torrent,  sweeping  the  opposing  mound. 
As  the  bold  eagle  from  his  eyrie-peak, 
Thro'  heaven's  pure  ether  cleaves  his  sunward  course, — 
So  doth  the  soaring  spirit  upward  mount, 
And  all  again  is  redolent  of  hope. 

But  where  is  she — his  Elfreide — guardian  sprite 
Of  his  existence — of  the  conflict  past 
Blest  arbitress,  as  though  on  mission  sent 
From  realms  above,  to  light  his  soul  in  this  ? 

Lo  !  'neath  a  canopy,  in  rural  state, 


60  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

On  sylvan  throne  of  ilex,  intertwined 
With  fresh -cull'd  eglantine  and  mountain  ash, 
And  bright  arbutus,  and  each  flower  that  loves 
The  brief  embrace  of  Norway's  summer-sun, 
She  sits  in  regal  hall — while  noble  dames, 
Flower-cinctur'd  virgins,  rang'd  on  either  hand, 
Await  the  pageant  of  the  warriors  near, 
And  their  grave  senator  and  aged  sire, 
And  Jarl  and  lordly  thane,  and  vet'ran  chief, 
Do  homage  to  the  maid  of  Guldal's  vale. 
Aloft,  the  Runic  scalds  in  order  plac'd, 
With  brow  enwreath'd,  give  forth  the  bardic-strain, 
And  tell  the  deeds  of  those,  who  well  have  prov'd 
That  Norway  still  is  rife  with  hearts  allied 
To  the  great  chieftains,  who  in  climes  afar 
Had  made  the  Moslem  crescent  to  wax  pale, 
And  stemm'd  the  surge  of  Saracenic  might. 
But  chief  to  her — the  lightning  of  whose  soul, 
Kindling  new  ardor  in  each  patriot  breast, 


ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL.  61 

Sped  its  bright  shaft  within  the  Cimbric  host — 
The  symphony  of  grateful  spirits  rose. 

So  in  her  darkest  hour,  when  'fore  the  Gaul, 
The  Curule  Fathers  of  their  country  bowed, — 
Amidst  the  sacred  fane  of  Cserse's  grove, 
The  vestal  fire  of  Rome  burn'd  brightly  on, 
Fed  by  th'  untiring  faith  of  woman's  love. 

"  They  come,  they  come  !  raise  high  the  martial  strain, 
Awake  your  silvery  chant,  ye  virgin  band  ! 
Bugle  and  harp,  send  forth  your  gleeful  notes, 
And  let  the  mountain-echoes  speak  again. 

Behold  the  chieftain  !     With  one  loud  acclaim 
The  dome  resounds ; — when  thus  the  aged  Jarl : 
"  Hail,  noble  warriors  !  and  all  hail  to  thee, 
Frave  Harald,  who  hast  led  these  conqu'rors  forth  ! 
But,  chief,  I  bid  thee  hail,  that  thou  hast  won 
A  nobler  guerdon  than  these  trophied-spoils 
Now  borne  in  triumph  by  thy  gallant  band  ; — 
'Tis  she  whom  Heaven  has  sent  to  bless  our  land. 


62  ELFREIDE      OF      GULDAL. 

Thy  chiefest  glory  is,  that  such  a  heart 
Has  liv'd  to  bless  and  triumph  over  thine. 
Receive  and  wear  then,  as  thy  richest  boon, 
The  flower  of  Guldal— Elfreide  of  Melhuus !" 


NOTES. 


"  Shun  the  fatal  shore, 
Where  demon  voices  mingle  with  the  roar 
Of  the  vez'd  ocean"  PAGE  26. 

"  Solent  quoque  nocturne  viatores,  gregumque  et  armentorum 
excubiis  intend,  portentis  diversi  generis  circumfundi.  Velut  Hothe- 
rus  Rex  (Reste  Saxone)  tres  Nymphas  ad  earum  antra  secutus,  vic 
tories  zonam  et  cingulum  impetravit.  Quandoque  vero  sultum  adeo 
profundfc  in  terram  imprimunt,  quod  locus  cui  assueverant,  insigni 
ardore  orbiculariter  peresus,  non  parit  arenti  redivivum  cespite  gra- 
men.  Hunc  nocturnum  monstrorum  ludum  vocant  incolae  choream 
Elvarum:  de  quibuscum  habent  opinionem,  quod  animieorum  homi- 
num,  qui  se  corporeis  voluptatibus  dedunt,  earumque  quasi  ministros 
se  prsebent,  impulsuique  libidinum  obediunt,  ac  divina  et  humana 
jura  violant,  corporibus  elapsi  circum  terrain  ipsam  volutantur. 


64  NOTES. 

Equorum  credunt  eos  esse,  qui  se  adhuc  nostro  seculo  in  effigie  hu- 
mana  accomrnodare  solent  ministeriis  hominum,  nocturnis  horis 
laborando,  equosque  et  jumenta  curando,  ut  infra  de  ministerio  dae- 
monum  hoc  eodem  libro  ostendetur." — Olai  Magni  Gentium  Sep- 
tentrisnalium  Hist.  Brevi.  Ed.  Amstel.  Cap.  x.,p.  88. 


"Where  the  Lapland  drum 

Blends  with  the  night  blast."  PAGE  26. 

"  This  they  do  with  a  certain  instrument  which  they  call  kannus, 
not  unlike  the  old-fashioned  drums,  from  whence  they  are  usually 
called  Laplandish  drums.  This  drum  being  beaten,  and  some  songs 
sung,  they  bring  the  designed  sacrifice  to  Thor. — SHEFFERUS'  Hist, 
of  Lapland,  p.  42. 


"Bound  on  the  blessed  embassy  of  love." 

PAGE  29. 

The  Norwegians  were  converted  to  Christianity  about  the  be 
ginning  of  the  llth  century.  This  was,  however,  pretty  much  that 
kind  of  conversion  which  Charlemagne  effected  with  the  Saxons,  in 
which  the  baptismal  font  or  the  sword  was  the  alternative.  "Ecce 
ilia  ferocissima  Danorum  sive  Nortmannorum  aut  Stieonum  natio, 
quae,  juxta  beati  Gregorii  verba,  nihil  aliud  scivit  nisi  barbarum  fren- 
dere,  jamdudum  novit  in  Dei  laudibus  Alleluia  resonare.  Ecce  pop- 


NOTES.  65 

ulus  ille  piraticus,  &  quo  totas  olim  Galiiarum  et  Germanise  provin- 
cias  legimus  depopulatas,  suis  nunc  finibus  contentus  est." — Hist. 
Gotthor,  Vand.)  and  Langob.,  ab  Hugone  Grotio,p.  108. 


"  Shaping  its  course  for  Vineland's  distant  shore" 

PA&E  32. 

"  We  have  thus  seen  that  the  old  Icelandic  Sagas  state  expli 
citly  that  colonies  of  Northmen  existed  on  the  shores  of  Greenland 
from  the  close  of  the  tenth  to  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
From  that  period,  to  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  nothing  more 
was  heard  of  them,  and  those  who  had  not  read  the  original  docu 
ments,  and  been  convinced  from  the  internal  evidence  afforded  by 
the  simplicity  and  truthfulness  of  the  narrative  that  they  dealt  with 
facts,  and  not  with  fiction,  might  reasonably  doubt  their  testimony, 
and,  by  analogical  reasoning,  that  of  the  Sagas  in  general.  The 
Runic  inscriptions,  and  the  numerous  vestiges  of  the  former  colo 
nies,  scattered  along  the  east  coast  of  Baffin's  Bay,  are  therefore 
doubly  interesting  and  important ;  for  they  not  only  confirm,  in  the 
most  striking  manner,  the  authenticity  of  the  Sagas  relating  to 
Greenland,  but  warrant  the  conclusion  that  those  which  tell  us,  in 
the  same  artless  manner,  of  the  discovery  of  the"  American  continent, 
are  equally  trustworthy,  though  their  statements  have  not  as  yet  been 
confirmed  by  the  same  kind  of  palpable  evidence." — MALLET'S 
Northern  Antiquities,  p.  249-50. 
4* 


66  NOTES. 

"  The  moor-ild  flashing  up, 
Gives  forth  a  sea  of  fire."  PAGE  38. 

"  Proceeding  from  an  agitation  of  the  salt  water  in  a  dark  night, 
which  hath  been  every  year  observed  by  the  herring-fishermen,  when 
towing  their  nets  along  in  a  calm  ;  for  the  sea  appears  in  a  kind  of 
flame,  as  far  as  the  nets  reach." — PONTOPPEDAN'S  Norway,  p.  5,  P. 
I,  Chap.  1. 


" And  now  the  theme 

Was  of  the  Kraaken  huge,  by  shipman  seen 
Rolling  in  spiral  fold"  PAGE  40. 

See  PONTOPFEDAN. 

"  Sunt  monstrosi  pisces  in  lettoribns  seu  mari  Norvegico,  inusitati 
nominis,  licet  reputentur  de  genere  caetorum,  qui  immanitatem  suara 
primo  aspectu  ostendunt,  horroremque  intuentibus  incutiunt,  turn  in 
formidinem  diutius  conspicientes  pariter  ct  stuporem  vertunt." — 
Olai  Mag.,  Gent.  Sept.,  p.  456. 


"Lo,  the  Dane, 

With  twice  ten  sail,  make  for  the  fiord."     PAGE  51. 
"  News  came  from  the  Southland,  that  the  people  of  Hordaland 
and  Rogaland,  Agder  and  Phelmark,  were  gathering  and  bringing 


NOTES.  67 

together  ships  and  weapons  and  a  great  body  of  men.  The  leader 
of  this  was  Eric,  king  of  Hordaland.  Now  when  Harald  got  cer 
tain  news  of  this,  he  assembled  his  forces,  set  his  ships  on  the  water, 
made  himself  ready  with  his  men,  and  set  out  southward  along  the 
coast,  gathering  many  people  from  every  district.  The  whole  met 
together  at  Jeddern  and  went  into  Hafursfiord.  A  great  battle  be 
gan,  which  was  both  hard  and  long,  but  at  last  King  Harald  gained 
the  day.  There  King  Eric  fell,"  &c.  So  says  HORNKLOFE  ; 

"  Has  the  news  reached  you  1     Have  you  heard 
Of  the  great  fight  at  Hafursfiord 
Between  our  noble  king  brave  Harald  1"  &c. 

Heimskringla. 


SEMAEL 


S  E  M  A  E  L  . 


THY  wave,  internal  sea,  wherever  named — 
Levantine,  or  Ionian,  or  Tyrrhene — 
Stretching  far  on,  from  Calpe,  olive-crown'd, 
To  the  dark  Syrian  or  Egyptian  strand  ; 
Or  flowing  northward  t'ward  Europa's  shore, 
Laving  the  soil  of  Hellas  or  Ausonia  ; — 
Thy  wave,  were  it  but  voic'd,  could  open  up 
A  tale  of  eld,  hid  in  the  womb  of  night, 
Which  nought  of  Delphic  lore,  or  Orphean  hymn, 
Or  song  of  Ascrean  bard,  halh  e'er  reveal'd. 
'Twas  o'er  thy  waters  look'd  Semael  forth 


72  SEMAEL. 

In  the  deep  noon  of  night,  from  off  the  cliff 
Of  steep  Alaya,  frowning  o'er  the  sea ; 
Rolling  'twixt  Syrian  and  Cilician  coast. 

From  youth  to  manhood,  manhood  to  old  age, 
Semael's  days  had  flow'd  serenely  on  ; 
His  night  was  giv'n  to  pray'r  or  vigil  lone  ; 
Morn  sent  him  forth  on  daily  pilgrimage, 
But  to  no  canoniz'd  earth-stricken  saint, 
Or  precious  relic  of  a  by-gone  age, — 
'Twas  human  welfare  claim'd  his  anxious  breast ; — 
Where  suff'ring  man  was,  there  deem'd  he  the  shrine 
Of  Him,  who  walk'd  the  earth  ;  of  Him  who  bore 
The  penal  woes  of  all.     The  lowly  cell, 
Palladian  palace,  or  the  sod-built  cot, 
Found  him  a  willing  and  a  welcome  guest. 
Or,  in  the  rear  of  battle-field,  where  death 
Strode  with  gigantic  stride,  and  carnage  wild 
Deluged  the  plain  with  slaughter — there  was  he. 
Where  the  crusader  and  the   painim  strove 
In  deadly  conflict,  till  the  sun  went  down 


S  E  M  A  E  L  .  73 

In  blood  j  a  tutelary  spirit  there  ; — 
Moist'ning  the  burning  lip  with  cooling  draught, 
From  fount  or  brook  ;  stemming  life's  gushing  tide, 
Pouring  the  oil  and  wine,  pillowing  the  brow 
Upon  his  aged  breast ;  and  pointing  where 
The  burden'd  soul  alone  can  find  relief. 

But  now  full  fourscore  years  have  blench'd  his  brow  ; 
So  that  his  few  spar'd  locks,  like  to  the  flake, 
Which  crowns  the  neighb'ring  Taurus,  show  that  time 
Has  well  now  fill'd  his  record  of  good  deeds, 
And  giv'n  him  passport  for  eternity. 

In  his  lone  skyward  cell,  which  crowns  the  cliff 
That  beetles  o'er  the  sea ;  while  the  pale  lamp, 
Low  pendent  from  the  roof,  scarcely  illumes 
The  sacred  page  ;   he  plies  th'  inspir'd  theme, 
Which  plumes  his  hope,  like  a  bright  seraph-wing, 
Toward  the  heav'n  he  sought.     Anon  he  lifts 
His  pale  but  placid  brow  from  off  the  scroll  ; 
Looks  out  upon  the  night.     The  moon  has  ris'n 
Above  the  hill  of  Eastern  Lebanon, 


74  SEM  AEL. 

Which  throws  its  shadow  on  the  dark  blue  wave  ; 
And  yet  so  bright,  so  glorious  is  her  beam, 
That  palm  and  fir,  and  olive,  stand  relieved 
In  the  bright  heavens  beyond.     On  that  vast  sea, 
O'er  whose  wide  waters  roves  his  hazed  eye, 
The  fleet  of  mighty  nations,  now  no  more, 
Whose  very  names  have  scarcely  reach'd  his  age, 
Had  rode  in  triumph.     The  Pho3nician  there, 
Nearing  the  Sunium,  where,  in  after  age, 
Athena's  glorious  fane,  like  vestal  fair, 
In  spotless  robe,  look'd  down  upon  the  sea, 
Cheering  the  wanderer  o'er  the  ^Egean  deep, — 
Bore  on  to  favor'd  Greece  the  letter'd  spoil, 
Which  gave  to  speech>a  semblance,  and  to  thought 
An  omnipresent  and  enduring  being. 

And  there  the  Egyptian  queen,  who  led  enthrall'd 
In  love's  soft  blandishment,  Rome's  conqueror, 
Sail'd  on  in  state,  a  sovereign  of  the  wave, 
In  barge  which  sham'd  the  dolphin's  golden  pride, 
Another  Amphitrite.     And  there  too, 


S  E  M  A  E  L  .  75 

The  vanquish'd  mistress,  fleeing  from  the  fight 

Of  Actium,  led  th'  ignoble  Antony, 

Partner  in  shame,  in  flight — and  one  in  death. 

But  now,  nor  thought  of  strife  or  passion,  mars 
The  peaceful  brow  of  him,  upon  whose  breast 
Far  gentler,  holier  influences  fall, 
As  fall  the  moonbeams  on  the  tranquil  waves 
Which  stretch  far  onward.     The  felucca  there, 
With  lateen-sail,  seen  in  th5  horizon-skirt, 
Shaping  its  course  t'ward  the  Egyptian  shore, 
Gives  to  the  moon  the  silv'ry  foam,  which  breaks 
'Gainst  the  sharp  keel,  and  tracks  the  wave  with  light ; 
While  just  beneath  him  bounds  the  lighter  skiff 
With  bird-like  speed  ;  and,  darting  to  the  shore, 
Lowers  its  white  sail,  and  moors  its  painted  prow 
Close  to  the  cliff.     Disporting  in  the  sheen 
Of  glorious  night,  which  orient  clime  alone 
Doth  witness,  the  sweet-voic'd  nightingale 
Sends  up  her  plaining  note  ;  while  from  afar 
The  varied  sound  of  sea-bird,  or  the  howl 


76  S  E  M  A  E  L  . 

Of  distant  mastiff,  or  the  lashing  surge, 

Come  o'er  the  soul  like  some  bewildering  spell. 

"  Scroll  of  past  ages,"  thus  Semael  speaks, 
"  As  flash  thy  billows  'neath  the  beam  of  night, 
Methinks  I  read  upon  thy  surging  waves 
The  transcript  of  the  past.     Upon  thy  marge 
Empires  have  grasp'd  at  spoils,  as  perishable 
As  weeds  upon  the  sea-shore,  eager  sought 
Of  sportive  childhood.     Yet,  upon  thy  shores 
Science  was  cradled,  art  unfolded  all 
Of  symmetry  and  grace,  as  fabled  once 
Of  Aphrodite  risen  from  thy  foam. 
But  O,  thy  chiefest  glory,  wondrous  sea, 
Thou  lav'st  the  steep  of  yon  blest  Palestine, 
Where  rose  that  Sun  with  healing  on  his  wings, 
Which  shall  illume  this  earth's  remotest  verge. 
O'er  thy  wide  waters  went  his  heralds  forth, — 
The  favor'd  messengers  of  light  and  life, 
To  nations  yet  unborn  ;  and  Europe  now 
Risen  from  the  grave  of  empires,  shall  repay 


SEMAEL.  77 

For  light  received,  a  glorious  recompense. 

"  Thy  poetry,  O  night,  when  stars  look  down 
From  the  blue  depths  of  heaven,  on  a  sea 
Of  calm-reposing  waters — giving  back 
In  mimic  pageant,  from  their  crisped  wave, 
Another  firmament  of  kindred  stars, 
Which  there  reflected,  seem  like  spirits  falPn, 
Reverting  to  the  source  from  whence  they  fell ; — 
Thy  poetry,  O  night,  is  beautiful — 
Seen  as  thou  art  in  widow'd  loveliness, 
In  weeds  of  mourning, — weeping  'midst  thy  dews, 
For  a  world  'reft  of  Him,  earth's  first  espous'd, 
When  angels  dwelt  with  man,  and  man  with  God." 

Once  more  Semae'l  seeks  the  sacred  page, 
Ere  sleep  weighs  down  his  eyelids,  and  sets  free 
The  spirit,  loos'd  from  thraldom  of  the  sense. 
Joyous  he  holds  sweet  converse  with  bright  beings, 
Beatific  visitants  from  realms,  where  sin 
And  sorrow  come  not, — giving  here  below 
Rich  antepast  of  heav'n — fruition  blest, 


78  SEM  A  EL  . 

Which  only  disembodied  seraphs  know. 

So  the  bold  mountain  bird,  with  sunward  gaze, 
Thro'  wint'ry  tempests,  seeks  its  rock-girt  home, 
Mounts  from  its  eyrie,  and  with  outstretch'd  plume, 
Soars  far  above  the  threat'ning  whirlwind's  sway, 
The  torrent's  rush,  or  lurid  lightning's  scath ; — 
Far,  far  on  high,  amidst  th'  ethereal  vault — 
The  bright  Cerulean — with  determin'd  wing, 
He  cleaves  the  fields  of  ether,  and  sails  on. 
Full  on  his  vision  beams  the  glorious  orb, — 
Yet  with  unblenching  eye,  he  onward  mounts, 
Still  onward,  and  still  onward  ;  nor  to  earth 
Turns  back  his  gaze,  till  lost  amidst  the  blaze 
Of  light  celestial — earth  has  disappear'd. 

But  lo,  a  form  before  his  fearful  gaze, 
Of  stature  far  surpassing  man  !  his  brow, 
Cinctur'd  with  night-shade,  reaches  the  arch'd  dome, 
Whence  beams  the  flick'ring  lamp.     His  visage  grave, 
Efespeaking  peace,  benignity,  and  love, — 
Such  as  angelic  natures  wont  to  have, — 


S  E  M  A  E  L  .  79 

Dispels  the  terrors  of  Semael's  breast, 

And  speaks  him  bound  on  embassy  of  peace. 

Yet  from  his  full-orb'd  vision,  issues  forth 

Unearthly  radiance — such  as  overhead, 

The  moon  emergent  from  some  dark-rob'd  cloud, 

Throws  out  upon  the  night.     With  outstretch'd  arm, 

He  lifts  his  starry  mantle ;  then  with  hand 

Uprais'd,  yet  objectless,  pointing  to  nought, 

Save  the  blue  vault  without,  he  speaks  with  voice 

As  hymning  night-wind  thro'  the  tufted  boughs 

Of  the  dark  fir,  beneath  night's  silvery  ray  : 

"  Semael,  thou  canst  read  an  embassy 
Which  comes  to  all, — him  thron'd  in  regal  state, 
The  houseless  wand'rer,  and  the  dungeon-slave  : 

Emasser,  I the  messenger  of  death ! 

But  not  in  me  seest  thou  that  phantom  dark, 
That  hideous  spectre,  arm'd  with  dart  to  strike, 
As  pictur'd  to  the  terror-stricken  breast 
Of  him,  the  slave  of  sin ; — the  envoy  I 
Of  peace  and  joy  to  such  as  thee  on  earth. 


80  S  E  M  A  E  L  . 

Ere  three  short  moons  shall  wane  beyond  yon  hills, 
Thou,  son  of  earth,  shalt  end  thy  pilgrimage, 
And  slumber  with  thy  fathers.     'Tis  because 
Of  a  long  life,  in  charity  with  man, 
And  converse  with  the  skies,  that  thou,  Semael, 
Art  now  forewarn'd,  thou  soon  shalt  put  aside 
Thy  palmer-weeds,  and  deck  thyself  with  robes 
Radiant  with  light — a  never-fading  vestment." 

"  Angel  of  death  " — Semael  calm  replies, 
"  Him  will  I  follow,  who  has  pass'd  the  vale 
Triumphantly  before  me,  and  lay  down 
My  staff  of  faith,  just  on  those  confines,  where 
Time  ceases,  and  eternity  begins. 
But  tell,  blest  spirit,  where  thy  dwelling-place  ? 
O'er  earth, — thro'  air — or  ocean  wand'rest  thou  ; 
Or  dost  inhabit  those  bright  spheres  above, 
Which  now  send  down  their  influence  on  the  night, 
And  tell  of  worlds  beyond  ?"— "  It  is  forbidden," 
Answers  Emasser,  "  to  unfold  to  mortal 
What  would  inflict  on  life's  probationer 


SEMAEL.  81 

A  prescient  suffring ;  but,  Semael,  thou 

Art  'bove  thy  fellow-mortal  privileg'd. 

Fear  not, — I'm  with  thee;" — straight  Semael  feels 

The  messenger's  firm  grasp,  as  with  strong  arm 

He  circles  him  ;  and  o'er  the  battlement 

Bears  him  thro'  air.     The  bright  array  of  heav'n 

Is  burning  overhead  ;  and,  far  below, 

The  roar  of  ocean,  and  the  unceasing  dash 

Of  mountain-torrent,  and  the  hollow  moan, 

Made  by  the  night-gust,  thro'  the  rocky  gorge 

Of  Lebanon  and  Hermon,  scarce  are  heard. 

As  shoots  the  meteor  thro'  the  cope  of  night, 
So  swiftly  pass  they  peopled  continents, 
Kingdoms  and  empires,  and  the  thronged  mart 
Of  wall-girt  city,  now  in  slumber  hush'd. 

And  now  they  light  on  earth.     A  chasm  vast, 
Of  savage  aspect  and  of  Stygian  gloom, 
Receives  the  aerial  travellers  ;  when,  lo, 
Bursts  on  Semael's  sense  a  wondrous  scene, 
O'erwhelming  and  appalling.     'Midst  a  cave, 


82  S  E  M  A  E  L  . 

Which  to  the  gaze  would  seem  interminable, 

Unnumber'd  lamps  of  varied  colors,  pendent 

From  wall  of  glist'ring  spar,  stalactitic, 

Shine  with  a  dazzling  splendor.     While  above, 

From  the  high  arched  dome  of  ebon-hue, 

Crystals  of  rich  and  varied  drapery 

Give  back  in  prismy  hues  the  flame  beneath. 

In  the  far  distance,  where  the  cavern'd  space 
Opens  to  day,  a  light  ineffable, 
Whose  brightness  far  excels  ten  thousand  suns 
Converg'd  in  one,  beams  with  a  ray  intense  ; 
So  that  not  eagle-eye  had  brook'd  its  splendor. 
No  wonder  this,  for  thither  effluent, 
Pass  the  flame-spirits,  instant  going  out, 
Of  myriad  lamps,  coursing  with  lightning  speed 
Back  to  the  source  of  empyreal  brightness. 

From  under  ground,  the  sound  of  rushing  waters, 
Chiming  thro'  clefts,  or  dashing  over  rocks, 
Blends  with  a  strange  unearthly  melody, 
Heard  from  the  vaulted  roof.     As  'neath  the  spell 


SEMAEL.  83 

Of  wizard- power,  cheating  the  'wilder'd  brain, 
Semael  turns  him  to  the  stranger-guide. 

"  Tell  me,  Emasser,  what  this  wondrous  place  ; 
These  myriad  lamps  of  varied  hue  and  shape, 
Whose  flames  in  volume  differ  each  from  each  ; 
From  the  faint  beam  which  fitfully  illumes 
Its  own  circumference,  to  those  torch-like  fires, 
Throwing  afar  their  blaze  into  the  night  ?" 

"  These,"  said  Emasser,  "  are  the  lamps  of  life  ; 
Each  has  its  meted  naphtha  ;  and  the  hue 
Tells  of  the  varied  castes  and  characters. 
Those  thou  beholdest,  to  the  verge  replenish'd, 
Have  enter'd  on  existence ;  these  thou  seest 
With  scant  supply,  are  the  brief  lights  of  those, — 
Whether  of  glorious,  or  of  sad  import 
Their  lives  on  earth, — who  pass  from  this  abode 
In  lustihood  of  life  ;  while  buoyant  hope, 
E'er  in  the  distance,  lures  them  soothingly, 
With  bright-wrought  tissues  fading  into  air  ! — 
'Midst  joyous  visions  of  futurity, 


84  SEMAEL. 

Or  dark  forebodings  of  an  after  being, — 

Retributive  of  good  or  ill  on  earth, — 

Their  lights  go  forth — not  out, — their  issues  are 

In  the  bright  effluence,  thou  seest  afar. 

Others  thou  seest,  whose  pure  flames  are  fed 

With  crystal  naphtha — pure  as  that  which  gives 

To  the  bright  star  of  morn  its  silv'ry  ray ; 

Yet  as  that  star  evanishes  at  dawn, 

So  shall  these  lights  of  cherub-infancy 

Mount  up  to  heav'n  and  mingle  with  its  brightness." 

"  But  whose  are  these,"  Semael  asks,  "  whose  lights 
Burn  so  intense,  and  with  as  vivid  flame, 
As  that  which  once  descended  from  above 
On  sacrifice  accepted,  drinking  up 
The  fluid  of  life  with  fierce  consuming  fire, — 
Making  a  holocaust  of  that  it  loves  ?" 

Emasser  thus  :  "  These  are  the  sons  of  song, 
Whose  lights  soon  fade  and  pass  from  mortal  sight ; 
But  that  which  hath  been  kindled  from  above, 
Lives  thro'  eternity  !     And  see  their  rays — 


SEM AEL. 

Like  to  th'  effulgent  sun-stream  issuing  forth 
At  yonder  portal — seek  a  higher  source  ; 
Where  all  their  powers  inspher'd  in  harmony, 
Freed  from  Promethean  ligament,  which  here 
Chains  the  proud  spirit  to  the  naked  rock 
Of  earth's  existence — there  to  writhe  and  groan 
In  agonizing  thraldom, — know  no  bounds 
But  that  which  binds  them  to  the  throne  of  God  ! 
"  Not  so  of  him,  whose  lamp  below  thou  seest, 
Close  to  that  stream  bituminous,  which  flows 
From  impure  source,  conveying  in  its  course 
Gross  matter  phosphorescent,  the  foul  lees 
Of  putrefaction  ; — fed  by  aliment 
So  vile,  behold  how  fitfully  the  flame 
Shoots  upward,  with  resplendent,  sportive  ray  ; 
Now  waxes  low,  a  pale  and  sickly  beam, 
Scarcely  adhering  to  the  filmy  wick  ; — 
Now  flickering  faint,  now  flashing  up  again, 
As  loath  to  leave  !     This  is  the  light  of  bard, 
Falsely  so  call'd,  libidinous  and  vile, 


85 


86  S  E  M  A  E  L  . 

Whose  numbers  flow  in  gay  and  sprightly  strain, — 
Charming  the  ear,  soothing  the  dreamy  sense, 
Infusing  deadly  poison  in  the  soul  ; 
Like  that  of  Circe,  luring  to  destroy. 

"  Those  of  ensanguin'd  hue  are  lights  of  heroes, 
Whose  brow-encircling  wreath  is  drench'd  in  blood. 
The  fluid  which  feeds  their  flame,  as  thou  perceiv'st, 
Sends  forth  a  sick'ning  odor,  like  to  that, 
Which  from  the  field  of  carnage  reeking  comes. 

"Emblazon'd  in  the  heav'ns  or  on  the  earth, 
Where  are  inscrib'd  the  victories  of  those 
Whom  the  world  hail'd  as  heroes  ?     Where  the  pomp— 
Th'  array  of  serried  hosts — the  deaf 'ning  trump 
Of  glorious  warfare  ?     Ask  the  trackless  waste, 
O'er  which  we  cours'd  this  night,  where,  in  their  pride 
Fair  cities  stood,  resounding  with  the  hum 
Of  a  throng'd  people,  busy  in  the  arts, 
The  gentle  courtesies,  domestic  joys, 
The  kindly  interchange  of  charities ; — 
All  that  exalt  society,  and  lift 


SEMAEL.  87 

The  soul  of  man.     We  pass'd  this  night,  where  lie 
Prone  in  the  dust,  the  wondrous  works  of  art ; 
Where  silence,  like  a  dwarf  and  sullen  mute, 
Sits  with  her  finger  plac'd  athwart  her  lip, 
Clad  in  her  weeds  of  mourning.     And  we  pass'd 
The  arid  desert,  verdureless,  where  once 
Bright  laughing  fields,  and  crowning  villages, 
And  flocks,  and  herds,  and  smiling  harvests,  bless'd 
A  countless  multitude.     All  these  have  fled, 
Because  a  hero  will'd  it, — and  the  bard 
With  song  of  triumph  would  exalt  his  fame. 
"  So  much  for  fell  ambition,  ruthless  e'er 
To  all  which  thwarts  his  path ;  snatching  his  wreath, 
Tho'  drench'd  with  infant  gore,  'midst  the  lament 
Of  the  'reft  widow,  or  the  shriller  wail 
Of  maiden,  roving  o'er  the  battle-field. 
Even  such  an  one, — as  on  the  wings  of  air 
We  cours'd  this  night,  'neath  yon  starr'd  canopy, 
Beheld  we  on  the  plains  of  Khuzistan, 
Where  Terak  winds  his  way  thro'  banks  of  bloom ; 


88  S  E  M  A  E  L  . 

Whose  water  with  the  morning  sun  was  bright, 

But  now  ensanguin'd,  fearfully  speeds  on 

Beneath  the  moon's  sad  light.     We  saw  her  there 

In  search  of  her  betroth 'd  in  early  youth  ; 

Whom  having  found,  tho'  marr'd  with  ghastly  wound, 

In  maniac-mood,  she  plucks  her  tresses  wild, 

And  wipes  the  life-blood  from  his  clotted  face  ; 

Then  lying  down  beside,  with  bosom  press'd 

Closely  to  his,  and  lip  impress'd  on  lip, 

She  yields  her  life,  and  with  it  all  her  woe. 

"  His  is  a  hallow'd  cause — such  as  on  high 
Angels  shall  gaze  upon  and  deem  sublime — 
Who  on  the  threshold  of  his  country  stands, 
Link'd  arm  in  arm  with  kindred  spirits  there, — 
And  with  confed'rate  breast — determined  soul — 
Hurls  back  the  invasive  foe  ;  or  cleaves  to  earth 
The  wretch  who  dares  assoil  his  sacred  home. 

Who  falls  a  martyr  here — to  him  let  pseans 
And  songs  of  lofty  eloquence  arise  ; 
And  monumental  shaft,  to  distant  age 


SEMAEL.  89 

Attest  in  grave,  enduring  character, 

A  nation's  gratitude  for  rights  maintain'd. 

"  These  lamps  of  lurid  flame,  and  sulph'rous  stench, 
Shedding  a  tomb-fire  glare,  and  flashing  up, 
*With  intervals  of  gloom,  are  the  craz'd  urns 
Of  sensualists — inebriates — whose  whole  being, 
Immerg'd  in  matter,  is  imbruted  so, 
That  nought  of  their  original  remains ; 
Their  semblance,  man — their  state,  beneath  the  beast. 

"  And  see  yon  lamp,  in  form  like  serpent  wreath'd  ; — 
The  flame  forth  issuing  from  its  horrid  jaws, 
Like  fang  distilling  poison,  darts  around 
A  baleful,  flickering  gleam ;  showing  a  skin 
Of  mottled  hue  ; — this  is  the  lamp  of  him, 
Miscall'd  philosopher,  whose  powers  are  spent 
In  luring  souls,  by  specious  show  of  words, 
To  depths  of  doubt  and  fathomless  despair ; 
Until  with  fell,  self-immolating  hand, 
The  child  of  mis'ry  hurls  his  anguish'd  spirit 
Into  the  presence  of  the  God  who  gave  it. 


90  SEM  A  EL  . 

"  Beside  it,  see  that  lamp  of  grotesque  shape, 
Like  to  a  beetle  toiling  in  the  mire, 
With  head  turn'd  earthward ;  'tis  the  light  of  him, 
Whose  sum  of  life  is  spent  in  heaping  up 
That  dross  of  earth,  term'd  gold.     He,  like  the  thing 
Spher'd  by  the  insect,  crumbling  into  dust, 
Shall  prove  himself  at  last,  less  instinct- wise." 

As  if  already  pass'd  those  bounds,  where  time 
To  th'  illimitable  future  gives 
Th'  enfranchis'd  spirit,  freed  from  vassalage 
Of  racking  doubt  or  intermittent  fear, 
Semae'l  stands ;  like  one  beneath  the  spell 
Of  wizard-power :  and  lo,  the  high-arch'd  brow, 
The  breathing  audible,  the  frame  convuls'd, 
The  orb  of  vision,  eloquent  with  dread, 
Hand  link'd  in  hand  with  spasm'd  energy,— 
Attest  how  deep  his  soul  drinks  in  the  tale, 
Which  the  dark  messenger  of  fate  unfolds. 
Yet  like  the  victim,  by  the  Flamen  led 
In  pagan  pomp,  bedeck'd  with  flow'ry  wreath, 


S  E  M  A  E  L  .  91 

Destin'd  to  crown  the  sacrificial  rite, — 
He  bows  submissive,  and  awaits  his  doom. 

And  now  Semael  questions  thus  his  guide  : 
"  Closely  beside  me,  burns  a  lamp,  whose  light 
Beams  forth  with  clear,  attenuated  ray, — 
Of  form  peculiar, — like  the  vase  which  throws 
Its  grateful  incense  thro'  cathedral-dome  ; — 
And  see,  the  aliment  which  feeds  its  flame, 
Nigh  spent, — its  light  shall  soon  depart  for  aye ; 
Tell  me,  Emasser,  whose  this  feeble  fire  ?" 

"  That  lamp,"  replies  the  messenger,  "  is  thine. 
As  I  have  told  thee,  ere  three  moons  shall  wane, 
Thou,  son  of  earth,  shalt  end  thy  pilgrimage, 
And  slumber  with  thy  fathers.     Nay,  fear  not ; 
'Tis  but  a  transit ;  for  in  yonder  skies, 
These  effluent  rays  shall  form  a  diadem — 
A  bright  reflex  of  Deity  itself. 
Next  to  eternal  suffering,  were  to  live 
Through  an  eternity  of  being  here, 
Upon  this  spot  call'd  earth.     Undying  man, 
Invested  in  a  frame  of  fleshly  mould, 


92  S  E  M  A  E  L  , 

Subject  to  rack  and  moil — soul-strick'ning  gloom — 
With  intervals  of  fev'rish,  frenzied  joy — 
Fitting  the  more  for  each  access  of  pain, — 
Were  but  a  thing  of  wretchedness  supreme. 
What  never-ending  strife  of  hope  and  fear, 
Pressure  of  heart  and  brain,  distracting  doubt ; 
Torture  which  kills  not ;  joy  which  flies  the  grasp  ; 
Hope  in  the  distance,  which  comes  never  near  ; — 
These  were  indeed  eternity  of  woe, 
To  which  ten  thousand  agonizing  throes, 
Marshalling  the  way  for  me — were  joy  intense. 

"  To  die,  then,  truly  is  to  thee,  Semael, 
A  freeman's  privilege  ; — thy  franchis'd  spirit — 
Prison'd  so  long,  within  its  dungeon-gloom, — 
Snatching  at  times  glimpses  of  joy  far  off, — 
Shall  rend  its  fetters — leave  its  earthly  cell, 
And  revel  in  the  bliss  of  new-born  life." 

"  JTis  well,"  the  sage  replies,  and  meekly  folds 
His  hands  upon  his  breast : — "  But  say,  Emasser, 
Whose  lamp  is  that  replenish'd  to  the  verge, 
Burning  near  mine  ?" — Emasser  thus  : — "  That  flame 


S  E  M  A  E  L  .  93 

Is  the  young  Nepar's,  who  each  morning  leads 
Forth  from  Alaya,  his  well-order'd  fold, 
To  pasture  in  the  vale  'neath  thy  abode  : — 
Happy  his  days,  for  plenty  crowns  his  board ; 
Content  and  innocence,  his  chosen  guests. 
His  oil  of  life,  thou  seest,  shows  that  his  being 
Has  an  abidance  here  of  many  years." 

Semael  motions  here,  as  he  would  speak, 
But  his  tongue  falters,  and  his  voice  is  faint ; 
And  deep  conflicting  feelings  shake  his  frame, 
Almost  to  ague  ;  while  his  throbbing  brow 
Shows  that  the  pulse  of  life  beats  fitfully. 

Folding  his  mantle  o'er  his  laboring  breast — 
As  if  to  shroud  its  heavings  from  Emasser — 
He  drops  it  suddenly  with  flash  of  thought, 
That  pass'd  his  brain,  and  wakes  another  purpose. 
"  Emasser," — thus  he  answers — "  thou  behold'st 
The  lamp  of  Nepar  nigh  to  overflow  ; — 
Were  it  not  well  to  give  of  his  excess, 
To  this  poor  flame  of  mine  ?"     Scarce  has  his  tongue 
Giv'n  utt'rance  to  the  thought  that  racks  his  soul, 


94  SEMAEL. 

When  from  the  cavern's  depths,  a  fearful  shriek, 
As  if  from  thousand  agonized  spirits, 
Gives  forth  in  bitter  plaint ; — and  lo,  a  voice, 
In  sorrowing  accents  echoes  deep  and  clear — 

"  Shall  perfect  charity  be  found  on  earth  !" 
The  din  awakes  Semael,     His,  indeed, 
Has  been  a  fearful  vision.     From  the  scroll 
Which  open  lies  before  him,  slow  he  lifts 
His  aching  head ;  scarce  knowing  if  the  dream 
Which  sleep  had  woven,  is  in  truth  a  dream. 

With  trembling  bosom,  yet  with  grateful  joy, 
He  looks  around.     The  glorious  sun  has  risen ; 
And  from  the  ridge  of  eastern  Lebanon — 
Whose  brow  a  crimson  haze  has  circled — casts 
Thro'  the  east  casement,  light  upon  the  page, 
Which  lies  outspread  before  him, — and  he  reads : 
"  «  Watch  ye  and  pray,'  and  heed  the  tempter's  lure  ; 
1  The  spirit  wills,'  but  yet  '  the  flesh  is  weak.'  " 


M  A  I  A; 

A  MASK. 


M  A  I  A 


FICTION. 


CLAD  in  ever-changing  dye, 
The  elder-born  of  fantasy, 
With  pinion  dipp'd  in  yonder  blue, 
Sparkling  in  its  sapphire  hue, 
Tir'd  with  sport  of  yesternight, 
On  this  mortal  sphere  I  light ! 

I  have  bless'd  th'  enthusiast's  dream 
With  the  thousand  forms,  that  teem 
Not  in  worldling's  sordid  mind — 
To  this  spot  of  earth  confin'd. 


98  M  A  I  A  . 

I.  nor  festive  sport  nor  mirth 
Hold  with  Gnome,  who  delves  the  earth  ; 
Thriding  the  golden  vein — divining, 
Where  the  silver  ore's  refining — 
Till  his  soiled  plume  no  more 
Upward  from  its  dross  can  soar ! 
He,  with  cowering  crest  and  wing, 
And  drooping  eye — no  more  can  spring, 
Like  the  sceptred  bird  of  Jove, 
To  the  fount  of  light  above  ! 

Tore  the  Bard  I  have  disported, 
And  his  sealed  vision  courted ; 
Opening  to  him  tracts  of  time 
Far  beyond  the  solar  clime. 
Thence  I've  borne  him  back  to  where, 
Ages  of  glory  past  appear; 
Where  knightly  Troubadour,  in  lays 
Of  sweet  accord  gave  forth  the  praise 
Of  Lady-love  ; — and  tilt  and  war. 
Lighted  on  paynim  strand  afar. 


M  A  1  A  .  99 

Whilst,  the  midst,  the  courteous  dame 
The  guerdon-meed  of  song  proclaim. 

Whisking  thence,  I've  fluttering  sped 
To  the  wretch's  prison-bed  ; 
And  while  slumber  seal'd  his  lid, 
Open'd  on  him  scenes  forbid. 
Home  and  all  its  joys  beguil'd, 
Spouse  and  prattling  infants  smiled  ! 
Once  more,  fraught  with  bliss,  he  wander'd 
Where  his  native  stream  meander'd  • 
List'ning  to  the  linnet's  lays, 
And  tasting  joys  of  other  days  ! 
Now,  I  hie  me  hither,  where 
Coming  fancies  fill  the  air 
With  unearthly  sounds  of  glee, 
Of  approaching  jubilee. 

But  lo,  what  sylphid-spirits  sail 
Hither  on  ambrosial  gale  ! 

(Fiction  retires  into  the  background.} 


100  MAI  A. 

Enter  THREE  FAIRIES. 

First  Fairy.   Whither,  sister,  wouldst  thou  roam  ? 

Second  Fairy.  Where  the  martin  makes  his  home  ;- 
In  the  mossy,  sheltering  cleft. 

Third  Fairy.  Wherefore  thither  ?  frosts  have  left 
The  enamell'd  mead, — and  daisies  peep 
From  their  half-year,  winter  sleep. 

Second  Fairy.  But  the  orchis  shuts  her  bell ; 
This,  some  coming  sleet  doth  tell. 

First  Fairy.  No,  the  swallow  skims  the  sky, — 

Third  Fairy.  And  mock-bird  wakes  his  revelry. 
And  see  !  the  season  weaves  for  May, 
Blossom,  bell,  and  tassel  gay. 
Thro'  the  air,  and  on  the  wing, 
Go  the  germs  of  future  spring ; 
Floating  unseen,  save  by  eyes 
Kenning  "all  their  mysteries. 
Mine  the  task,  to  break  the  threads, 
Which  the  wily  spider  spreads 


MAI  A.  101 

O'er  travell'd  paths,  from  spray  to  spray, 
To  mesh  the  insect  on  his  way. 

Second  Fairy.  Tell  me,  when  upon  the  mead 
We  parted,  whither  did  ye  speed  ? 
I,  all  night  within  my  bower 
Of  the  yellow  jonquil-flower, 
Fanned  by  zephyr  whispering  by, — 
Slumber'd  with  unopening  eye, 
'Neath  the  moon-illumin'd  sky. 

First  Fairy.  And  I,  amidst  the  joyous  hall, 
Watch'd  the  gay,  accordant  fall 
Of  the  mazy  circling  ring, 
Whilst  the  viol  wak'd  its  string ; 
Lending  to  beauty's  cheek,  the  while, 
Laugh,  and  dimple,  sport  and  smile, — 
Gamboling  in  the  flowing  tress, 
Smoothing  the  plume  with  mute  caress ; 
And  chasing  with  my  thistle-spear, 
The  moth-fly  round  the  taper's  glare. 

Third  Fairy.  Behold  this  gem  ! — this  was  a  tear, 


102  MAI  A. 

Coursing  down  the  lovely  cheek 
Of  a  maiden, — bending  meek 
O'er  the  peasant's  pallet, — where 
Disease  had  fixed  his  ghastly  air. 

I  mark'd  her,  when  at  yester-eve, 
From  her  lodge  she  took  her  leave, 
And,  wending  thro'  the  copsewood,  hied 
To  yon  ivied  cot.     I  spied, 
When  she  from  the  matron's  brow 
Wip'd  the  cold  death-dew  ; — whispering  low 
Blessed  words  of  hope  and  peace, — 
Bidding  the  sigh  of  anguish  cease. 
Just  then,  from  forth  her  eyelid's  sphere, 
This  tear-drop  cours'd  ;  I  caught  it,  ere 
It  fell  to  earth,  and  brought  it  where 
Our  fairy  King  his  audience  kept, 
While  the  race  of  mortals  slept. 

First  Fairy.  And  what  did  Oberon  ? 

Second  Fairy.  O  say  ! 

Third  Fairy.  From  Jove's  silvery  star,  a  ray 


M  A  I  A  . 

He  caught,  and  quick  with  elfin-spear, 
Transfix'd  it  in  the  vestal  tear, 
Which  shot  into  this  crystal  sphere  ! 
O,  sisters,  how  upon  the  night 
It  streamed  !  as  if  some  meteor  bright, 
Bursting  amidst  the  welkin's  height, 
Scatter'd  towards  earth  its  thousand  streams 
Of  diamond  starlets  ; — 

First  Fairy.  But,  meseems, 

These  go  out,  before  they  near 
This  earth  of  ours — as  if  nought  fair — 
Of  heavenly  proof — can,  unassoil'd, 
Approach  its  orb — 

Third  Fairy.         But  here  it  foil'd— 
This  beauteous  gem — all  vain  compare  ; 
As  the  nymph,  each  maiden  fair, — 
And  blaz'd  the  more  upon  the  brow 
Of  sable-stoled  night !  and  now 
Our  kingly  Fay — with  gallant  mien 
And  courteous  bow,  approach'd  his  queen  ; 


103 


104  MAIA. 

And  with  a  sportive,  knightly  smile, 
Aerial  harpings  heard  the  while, — 
Would  fain  have  placed  it  in  her  zone  ; 
"  Not  so,"  said  she,  "  my  Oberon  ; 
For  only  she,  this  gem  shall  don, 
Who  gave  it  being — and  display 
Its  honors,  as  our  Queen  of  May." 

To  Titania,  our  queen,  is  the  task  assigned, 
To  place  this  gem  on  the  bosom  kind 
Of  the  lovely  nymph  of  the  falling-tear, 
But  lo  !  what  plaintive  sybil's  here  ? 

MARCH. 

\Beckoning  to  April,  who  follows.] 
Hither,  sister,  hither,  but  with  stealthy  tread, 
And  list  if  now  stern  Aquilon  be  fled 
With  all  his  wintry  hosts  of  icy-mail ; 
His  ambush'd  frost,  and  fierce,  assaulting  hail. 
And  hark ! — the  Lapland  war-drum,  muttering  low, 
The  howl  of  Arctic-wolf !  ah!  me — I  fear, 


MAI  A.  105 

Stern  winter  will  himself  anon  be  here, 
With  giant  footstep  and  dark  horrent  brow, 
Scattering  his  sleet  athwart  th'  inverted  year. 

Even  now — even  now — 
Methinks  I  list  the  despot's  threat  afar — 
Denouncing  scath  and  death  and  savage  war — 
Borne  on  the  fitful  breeze. — Behold !  behold  ! 
Blanch'd  by  the  midnight  winds  from  off  the  wold, 
A  pale-eyed  daisy  'midst  its  fellows  lies, 
An  early  victim  to  insidious  skies ! — 
And  here,  iniced  by  sleet  of  yesternight,* 
A  zephyr-loving  jasmine  feels  the  blight 
Of  churlish  night, — revisiting  the  light 
Of  this  bless'd  morn  :  yet  feeling  not  the  ray 

Of  spring-tide  day. 
How  like  a  lady-prisoner,  she  peers — 

*  The  yellow  jasmine  of  the  South  frequently  blossoms  in  January  and  Febru 
ary.  The  fact  mentioned  here  has  frequently  occurred.  A  severe  February  sleet 
was  followed  by  a  hard  frost.  A  jasmine-vine,  with  its  beautiful,  golden-hued, 
bell-shaped  blossoms,  and  bright  green  leaves,  was  thus  iniced ;  upon  which  the 
morning  sunbeams  reflected  with  surpassing  splendor. 
6 


iOG  MAI  A. 

A  Mary  or  a  Grey,  of  bygone  years — 
Thro'  the  scarce-visible  bounds — which  wears 
The  mockery  of  homage  ;  and  yet  holds 
The  lonely  nymph  within  its  crystal  folds ! 

SONG. 

Tell  me,  O  tell  me,  thou  delicate  stranger, 

Bearest  thou  still  the  bright  vestments  of  spring, — 

Now  that  late  winter's  harsh  chidings  endanger 
Curve-loving  tendril  and  sweet  blossoming  ? 

Daisy  and  primrose  and  violet  are  wither'd, 

That  peep'd  but  of  late  from  the  warm  southern  slope ; 

Few  were  the  days  here  of  sunshine  they  gather'd, — 
Day-stars  of  summer  and  pris'ners  of  hope ! 

Ice-fetter'd  victim — death-stricken — yet  blooming, — 
Around  thee  is  winter's  sharp,  cankering  breath, — 

Soul-withering,  yet  clasping, — caressing,  entombing 
All  that.  WP  love,  in  the  folding  of  death  ! 


MAI  A. 


107 


Bright  to  the  vision — triumphant — yet  dying, — 
Odorless,  sunless — thou  smil'st  to  decay  ; 

Wintery  breezes  around  thee  are  sighing — 

Yet  still  thou  look'st  forth  on  the  glories  of  day  ! 

O,  thus  in  that  hour,  when  the  coil  of  existence, 
Unrav'ling,  is  setting  th'  imprison'd  soul  free — 

May  a  spring,  never  ending,  beheld  in  the  distance, 
Cause  the  spirit  to  look  forth,  sweet  flow'ret,  like  thee ! 


APRIL. 


O  moody  sister  !  thou  art  still  the  same, 
As  wont  of  yore — an  ever-prescient  dame  ; 
Foreboding  from  the  skies,  stars,  moon,  and  sun, 
Of  evil  hap ;  come,  put  thy  kirtle  on 
Of  flowers  fresh  gather'd ;  here  is  lily  fair, 
And  rose  and  snow-drop  for  thy  unbound  hair  ; — 
Thy  tresses  discompos'd — thy  sibyl-air — 
111  suit  the  coming  of  th'  auspicious  day, 
That  ushers  in  the  myrtle-cinctur'd  May. 


108  MAI  A. 

See  how  the  meadow  laughs  with  myriad  flowers ! 
Spring  comes,  and  with  her  come  the  loves  and  hours. 
The  swallow  is  abroad,  and  upward  springing, 
The  welcome  mock-bird,  many-voic'd,  is  singing. 
All  hail  the  genial  morn  ; — the  seaward  plover 
Sails  up  to  heaven,  and  says  that  cold  is  over ; 
The  lark,  whose  sky-notes  thrill  the  welkin's  ear, 
Mounts  fearlessly,  and  tells  our  lady's  near  ; 
The  jasmine  shoots,  the  sycamore  puts  on 
Her  tender  green — proclaiming  winter  gone  ; 
And  the  soft-tinted  hawthorn,  with  her  green, 
So  delicate  to  sight, — and  flow'rets  sheen, — 
Yields  to  the  wooing  south  her  sweet  perfumes 
To  greet  our  festal  Queen  !  who  hither  comes  ! 

SONG. 

Look  on  this  rose — 'tis  beauty's  dower ; 

How  bright  its  hue — its  breath  how  fragrant ! 
The  bee  that  roves  from  flower  to  flower, 

Here  ends  his  quest,  no  longer  vagrant : 


MAI  A.  109 

And  in  his  foraging  career, 

Like  warrior  spell'd — enchain'd  by  beauty, 
Leaves  all  for  this  ;  and  sighing  here, 

Merges  in  love  the  call  of  duty. 

Is't  not,  in  truth,  of  flowers  the  queen  ! 

What  pensive  grace — bewitching  coyness  ! 
It  peeps  from  forth  its  bower  of  green, 

As,  giving  joy — itself  were  joyless. 

Then  in  thy  bosom  place  this  flower, 

Sweet  emblem  of  a  morn  like  this  ; 
The  year's  sweet  hymeneal  hour, 

When  all  is  redolent  of  bliss. 

[She  places  the  flower  in  the  zone  of  March.] 

MUSIC. 

[Scene  draws,  and  discovers  Oberon  and  Titania  seated  on  their 
throne,  surrounded  by  attendant  Fairies.  One  is  employed  in 
giving  drink  to  Oberon  out  of  a  lotus-leaf;  another  is  placing 


110  MAIA. 

flowers  in  the  tresses  of  Titania  ;  another  is  fanning  her  with 
green  palm-leaves.  Oberon  rises  from  his  throne,  and  ad 
dresses  the  three  Fairies.] 

Oberon.  Well  have  ye  done,  ye  fays,  to  whom  we  gave 
Our  late  behest ;  all  things  ye've  featly  done 
To  grace  this  coronal.     Our  Maia  comes — 
Deck'd  with  that  gem  more  precious  than  all  else — 
A  truthful  bosom,  fraught  with  sympathy. 
And  see,  Titania — see  on  yonder  cloud, 
Which  with  its  fleecy  skirt  sails  'thwart  the  blue 
O'  th'  welkin's  cope,  our  elfin  messenger, 
Aglaia,  sits, —  and  to  the  wanton  winds 
Diffuses  fragrance.     And  Ganoma  too, 
Our  merry  fay,  with  his  lithe  birchen  wand. 
Calls  up  unreal  shapes,  and  semblances ! 
Agape,  too,  that  melancholy  sprite, 
Gives  to  the  upland  slopes,  and  devious  brooks, 
And  distant  hills,  the  purple  haze  of  spring  : 
All,  all  rejoice.     Hark — from  the  distant  wave 


M  A  I  A .  Ill 


The  chant  of  ocean-chieftain  inland  floats! 
E'en  Neptune's  self,  in  coral- vesture  deck'd, 
Renders  his  homage  to  our  coming  rite. 


SONG. 

THE    VY-KING.* 

[Heard  in  the  distance.] 
Come  on  the  sea,  sweet  one, 

Come  without  fear ; 
Leave  all  for  me  alone, 

Kinsfolk  and  gear ! 
Yonder,  my  gallant  bark, 

See  it  rides  fair  ; 
Pennons  fly — sails  swell, — 
True  'tis  a  cockle-shell, 

Yet  I  am  king  there  ! 

*  See  De  Vigny. 


112  MAI  A. 

The  land  for  the  slave,  sweet  one, 

The  wave  for  the  free  ; 
Round  us,  wild  waters 

Enfold  thee  and  me  ! 
True  'tis  a  great  deep  ; 

So  is  love,  dear  ! 
Pennons  fly — sails  swell, — 
Our's  but  a  cockle-shell, 

Yet  I  am  king  here  ! 

Titania.  How  now,  sweet  Iris,  my  light-footed  fay, 
To  whom,  as  almoner  of  fairy  realm, 
We  gave  in  trust,  the  lovely  crystal  tear. 

Third  Fairy.  See,  my  Queen,  I've  brought  it  here, 
Perch'd  upon  my  ouphen-spear ; 
Glowing  with  the  starry  ray, 
Which  Oberon,  with  kind  essay, 
Wrested  from  the  star  of  Jove, 
As  it  speeded  from  above. 

Titania.  Give  me  the  gem,  bright  fairy  ;  it  shall  deck. 


MA1A.  113 

On  this  auspicious  morn,  the  bosom  fair 

O'  the  lovely  nymph,  to  whom  it  owes  its  birth. 

Third  Fairy.  Here  to  thee,  I  now  consign 
A  gem,  that  shames  Golconda's  mine ; 
Issuing  from  the  heart's  warm  core, 
Where  love  abideth  evermore. 
Love,  the  pearl  of  priceless  worth, 
Love,  the  sun  that  lighteth  earth, 
Love,  that  gave  existence  birth  ; 
All  the  treasure  earth  affords, 
All  the  gold  the  miser  hoards, 
All  the  music  of  the  grove, 
All  the  starry  host  above, 
All  that  greets  the  eye  and  ear, 
Is  nought — beside  this  love-form'd  tear ! 


114  MAIA. 

MUSIC. 

Pageant  ushering  in  the  Queen  of  May. 
FLORA,   POMONA,    THE    QUEEN,    CERES,    ZEPHYRUS. 

While  these  advance  in  the  foreground,  the  Fairies  are  arranged 

on  each  side  of  the  throne. 
Fiction  is  seen  at  some  distance  in  the  rear,  in  a  green  alcove, 

having  on  one  side  March,  and  on  the  other  April. 
Oberon   and  Titania    descend  from    their   throne,   and    conduct 

Maia  to  it,  placing  themselves  beside  her.     The  seat  of  Maia 

is  a  little  more  elevated  than  theirs. 

FLORA. 
[Approaches  Maia,  and  bends  in  fealty.} 

Hail  beauteous  Queen !     Sweet  Maia,  we  here  bring 
Our  vernal  tribute  !    Lo,  the  frolic-spring, 
Prank'd  in  her  iris-vest,  hath  sportive  flung 
O'er  upland  hill  and  dale,  her  robe  ; — and  hung 
Upon  the  beech,  her  tassell'd  honors  high  ! 
This  coronal,  which  ere  the  garish  eye 
Of  laughing  morn  peep'd  o'er  the  eastern  hill, 
Or  that  the  plaining  Whippoorwill 


M  A  I  A  .  115 

Had  still'd  her  vesper-notes  of  yester-eve, 

Or  that  the  woodpecker,  with  curious  bill, 

Had  made  the  wilderness  reecho,  shrill, — 
For  thee,  sweet  Maia,  we  weave  ! 

Here  are  sweet  violets,  gathered 
Ere  that  the  vaulting  sun  had  stolen  their  dew ; 

And  here  are  wildlings,  sever'd 
From  off  the  sloping  greensward,  where  they  grew. 

But  flowers  wither  while  they  bloom, 

Gracing  the  bridal  and  the  tomb ; 

Stars  of  earth — they  ope  to  fade  ; 

And  while,  O  nymph,  for  thee  we  braid 

All  that  dale  or  upland  views 

Of  myriad  shapes  and  myriad  hues, 

Know,  that  summer  will  be  here, 

When  these  blossomings  shall  sere  ; 

Autumn-gales  shall  erewhile  come  ; 

Vocal  notes  and  wild-bee  hum 

Then  depart, — and  leaf  and  blade, 

Tore  the  sighing  wind  shall  fade. 


116  MAIA. 

v 

Haste,  then,  gather  flow'rets,  where 
Spring  forever  crowns  the  year  ; 
And  the  spirit,  soaring  high, 
Drinks  of  immortality  ! 

ZEPHYRUS. 

Hail,  lovely  Maia !  from  yon  star-crown'd  west, 

On  goss'mer  wing,  we  speed  at  thy  behest ! 
Swiftly  we  have  wander'd  o'er 
Coral  strand  and  clifF-crown'd  shore, 
Where  the  huge  Pacific  rides, 
Heaving  with  his  countless  tides  ! 

We  have  frolick'd  with  the  curl 

Of  the  crisped  Ocean-wave  ; 

We  have  gamboll'd,  where  the  pearl 
Lies  deep  in  Neptune's  cave  ; 

And  have  fann'd  the  sea-boy's  sleep, 
Whispering  in  the  shroud ; 

And  on  the  stilly  moonlight-deep, 


MAIA.  117 


Mock'd  the  curlew  loud  ! 
We  have  backward  chas'd  the  year, 
Wheeling  on  his  destin'd  sphere, 
From  the  vale  of  bright  Cashmere, 

Either  Ind  and  Araby  ; 
All  the  sweets  which  each  supplies, 
All  that  greet  the  charmed  eyes, 

Hither  we  convey  to  thee, 

In  token  of  our  fealty ! 


POMONA. 

All  hail  sweet  Maia ! — not  in  vassal-guise, 
Hither  we  haste  to  plight  allegiance  due  ; 
Pomona's  treasures  come,  where  summer-skies 
Beam  brightest  in  their  deep,  cerulean  hue  ; 
Or  when  mild  autumn,  gorgeously  bedecks 
The  west  with  pageantry  of  crimson  dye, 
And  evening,  clad  in  purple  scarf,  reflects 
Upon  the  soul  her  thought-alluring  sky. 


118  M  A  I  A  . 

Yet  these  pledges  here  we  bring, 

Of  our  orchard's  blossoming  ; 

Redolent  of  every  sweet, 

Which  the  vernal  year  can  greet ; 

And  ere  three  summer  moons  shall  wane, 

Pomona  shall  her  joys  proclaim  ; 

Her  golden  fruit  and  purple  store, 

From  her  teeming  horn  shall  pour  ; 

Crowning  the  board  with  viands  which  vie 

With  immortals'  luxury  ! — 

CERES. 

Yonder,  where  the  forestere 
Affrights  with  echoing  axe  the  deer, 
Bounding  thro'  the  copse-wood  home, — 
Thence,  sweet  Maia,  we  have  come 
With  nodding  sheaf  and  tassell'd  ear  ; 
And  ere  three  summer-moons  appear, 
With  their  modest  crescent  fair, 


MAI  A.  119 

We  shall  crown  the  grange  e'ermore, 
And  bless  the  board  with  Ceres'  store. 
Even  now  the  mower  spies 
The  golden-crested  harvest  rise  ! — 

Not  in  Delphos'  fane  I  dwell, 
Echoing  to  the  mystic  shell ; 
Nor  in  Eleusis'  shrine — nor  where 
Dread  Dodona  fills  the  air 
With  unearthly  sounds, — which,  caught, 
Are  with  wondrous  import  fraught. 

All  these  mythic  fictions  gone, — 
Blear  delusion  too  hath  flown. 
Philosophy,  when  read  aright, 
Is  the  harbinger  of  light ; — 
Mystery,  and  craft,  and  fear, 
Have  no  place  or  presence  here. 

Not  a  warbler  wakes  his  lay, 
Not  a  dew-drop  pearls  the  spray, 
Not  a  fleecy  cloud-rack  sails, 
'Fore  the  warm-breath'd  summer  gales, 


120  MAiA. 

Shedding  blessings  on  the  earth, 

But  heavenward  points  its  primal  birth. 

Hark  the  green-sedg'd  chiming  rill, 
Winding  down  yon  cot-crown'd  hill, 
The  torrent's  dash,  the  river's  gush, 
The  mighty  wind, — resounding  crush 
Of  the  fall'n  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Re-echo'd  by  the  distant  flood  ! 

Ask  thy  spirit, — while  it  ranges 
Thro'  the  wonder-teeming  changes 
Of  creation's  mystic  book, 
Whereon,  maiden,  thou  dost  look  ; 
Wherefore  there  conjoined  be 
Beauty  and  variety ; 
Why  are  all  those  thousand  dies, — 
Plumage — leaf — and  earth — and  skies,- 
Ev'ry  varying  form  of  being, 
All  peculiar, — all  agreeing, 
But  that  the  path  of  duty  be 
Path  of  pleasantness  to  thee  ? 


M  A  I  A  .  121 

Sweet  Maia,  while  thy  soul  full  fraught 

With  ecstasy  of  wildered  thought, 

With  these  joys  is  redolent, — 

Be  thy  spirit,  e'er  intent 

On  that  beneficence,  which  giv'st 

All  the  bliss,  thou  here  receiv'st. 

So,  like  those  day-spring  clouds,  which  lie 
Entranc'd  before  the  musing  eye, — 
Reflecting  on  their  gorgeous  height 
The  glories  of  the  risen  light, — 
Thy  soul,  responsive,  e'er  shall  be 
The  bright  reflex  of  Deity  ! 

TITANIA. 
[Advances  with  the  crown  and  gem.] 

This  gem,  sweet  Maia,  all  thy  own, 
Shall  deck  this  day  thy  lovely  zone  ; 
Our  Iris  mark'd  thee,  yester-eve, 
Ere  the  western  sky  could  weave 
Her  many-colored  braid  of  light, 


M  A  1  A  . 

To  deck  the  raven-brow  of  night, — 
She  mark'd  thee,  when,  at  yester-eve, 
Thou  from  thy  lodge  didst  take  thy  leave  ; 
Wending  thro'  copse,  and  dell,  and  mead, 
To  minister  to  sufF'rer's  need  : 
And  saw  thee,  from  the  matron's  brow 
Wipe  the  cold  death-dew — whisp'ring  low 
Blessed  words  of  hope  and  peace, 
Bidding  the  sigh  of  anguish  cease. 

Just  then,  from  forth  thy  eyelids'  sphere, 
This  tear-drop  cours'd, — she  caught  it,  ere 
It  fell  to  earth — and  brought  it  where 
Our  Oberon  his  audience  kept, 
While  the  race  of  mortals  slept. 
;Twas  even  then,  my  royal  fay 
From  Jove's  silvery  star  a  ray 
Straight  caught,  and  quick,  with  elfin-spear, 
Transfix'd  it  in  this  vestal  tear, — 
And  fain  would  place  it  in  my  zone : 
"  Not  so,"  said  I,  "  my  Oberon, 
For  only  she  this  gem  shall  don, 


M  A  1  A  . 

Who  gave  it  being — and  display 
Its  honors,  as  our  Queen  of  May." 
\Titania  places  the  crystal  tear  in  the  zone  of  Maia.] 

THE    CORONAL. 

And  now  that  with  the  vernal  year, 
Awak'ning  nature's  smiles  appear  ; 
While  genial  harmony  and  gladness, 
Lift  e'en  the  stoic-brow  of  sadness ; — 
While  groves  are  vocal,  flow'rets  brightest, 
Skies  blue,  hearts  true,  and  bosoms  lightest, 
To  usher  in  this  blissful  day, 
We  crown  thee,  maiden,  Queen  of  May  ! 
We  bring  thee  garlands,  gather'd  ere 
The  sun's  first  orient  rays  could  sere 
Their  bloom  and  freshness ; — eglantine, 
Violet  and  rose  and  lily,  twine 
To  grace  this  festive  day  of  thine  ! 
But  lilies  fade,  and  roses  wither, 
And  spring  departs,  and  clouds  oft  gather, 


124  MAI  A. 

.'   & 

And  summer  flies,  and  autumn,  near, 
Resigns  to  winter's  arms  the  year. 
— O,  may  we,  lovely  Maia,  see 
The  season's  blessings  meet  in  thee ; 
Spring's  earliest  promise,  summer's  skies, 
And  autumn's  stores,  and  winter's  joys  ; — 
Revolving  thus,  e'er  bless'd  and  blessing, 
And  virtue's  fadeless  meed  possessing. 

CHORAL    RESPONSE. 

And  now,  that  with  the  vernal  year, 
Awak'ning  nature's  smiles  appear, 
While  genial  harmony  and  gladness 
Lift  e'en  the  stoic-brow  of  sadness  ; 
While  groves  are  vocal,  flow'rets  brightest, 
Skies  blue,  hearts  true,  and  bosoms  lightest, — 
To  usher  in  this  blissful  day, 
We  crown  thee,  maiden,  Queen  of  May. 

[After  a  slight  pause,  Oberon  and  Titania  conduct  Maia  from  her 
throne.} 


MAT  A.  125 

TRIUMPHAL    MARCH. 
[All  pass  out  except  the  three  Fairies  and  Fiction.] 

Third  Fairy.  And  now,  with  duteous  speed,  we'll  sail, 
On  the  blossom-bearing  gale, 
To  where  Oberon,  our  king, 
And  his  queen,  Titania,  bring 
Regal  banquet  for  the  fair, 
Of  bosom  kind  and  falling  tear  ; 
And  yon  gem  shall  gorgeous  blaze 
Brighter  than  the  planet's  rays — 
Whence  its  silvery  sheen  is  ta'en — 
In  the  forehead  of  the  night, 
Charming  the  sense  with  moral  light, — 
Telling  that  nought  more  brightly  glows 
Than  beauty's  tear  for  kindred  woes. 


1  2G  M  A  I  A  , 


FICTION. 

'Tis     pleasant     in    greenwood,    where    wildlings    are 

springing, 
Where  the  spicewood-tree  blooms,  where  the  linnet  is 

singing, 

To  list  to  the  boatman's  carols  which  tell, 

_i  < 
Mellow'd  by  distance,  passing  well ; 

'Tis  sweet  by  the  moonlit  fountain  to  lie, 

And  watch  the  light  fleece  come  sailing  by, 

And  picture  thereon,  with  spell-waking  wand, 

All  the  enchantments  of  fairy  land  ! 

Or,  to  join  our  voices  with  winds  which  blow, 

On  summer  eve,  thro'  the  forest-bough. 

But  'tis  sweeter,  far  sweeter,  to  watch  the  rise, 

In  the  morning  of  life,  of  brimming  eyes, 

O'erflowing  with  hopes  and  sympathies. 

And  now,  we'll  away  to  the  banquet-hall, 
Lest  there  aught  of  scath  our  queen  befall ; 
Be  mine  the  task  to  dispense  around 


MAI  A.  127 

Sweet  illusions  of  sight  and  sound  ; 
Pluming  the  thought,  and  pointing  the  smile, 
And  joining  of  hearts  and  hands  the  while. 
Thus  then,  on  whirring  pinions  we  go, — 
Hither,  sweet  fairies,  and  trip  it  so  ! 


WEEDS  FROM  LIFE'S  SEA-SHORE. 


Thou  who  readest  here,— O  learn  that  these — 
Each  of  these  weeds  hath  been  uptorn— each  one — 
From  the  mysterious  soundings  of  the  heart; — 
To  each  belongs  a  tale,  which  but  the  depths 
From  which  they  come,  can  tell 


WEEDS  FROM  LIFE'S  SEA-SHORE. 


THE   CHRYSALIS. 


I  TOO,  like  thee,  amidst  the  stour 

Of  winter's  darkest  noon  was  nurs'd — 
Cradled  in  ice,  and  rock'd  in  storm  ; 
Blear  lightning,  at  that  hour  accurs'd, 

Around  was  gleaming, 
And  the  night-bird  of  ominous  power 
O'erhead  was  screaming. 


And  would  that  hour,  which  forward  gave 

My  helpless  bark  to  life's  rough  sea, 
Had  seen  it  found'ring  'neath  the  wave 

Of  overwhelming  destiny ! 
Or — rather — were  the  gall-steep'd  germ 

Of  hateful  being  never  given  ; 
Or,  that  life's  lamp — when  it  would  burn — 

Were  blasted  by  a  gust  from  heaven. 

Yet  thou,  lone  chrysalis,  though  erst 
Autumnal  leaves  their  cerement  gave 
To  form  thy  little  embryo-grave. — 

Shall  burst, 

Soon  as  the  early  swallow  skims  the  stream, 
Thy  earthly  tegument — thy  wintry  dream, 
And  soar  on  pinion  far  away 
Beneath  the  solar  ray. 

From  flower  to  flower  at  will  to  rove, 
Freely  to  yip  where  thou  shalt  list, 


WEEDS      PROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         133 

Proffering  to  each  a  passing  love, 

Reckless  of  beauty  soon  as  kiss'd  ; 
Till  tir'd  of  play  and  feverish  being, 
The  same  dull  round  of  pleasure-seeing, 

Pillow 'd  on  the  rose's  breast — 
Together  with  the  west'ring  sun — 
Thy  little  brief  existence  done — 
Thou  sink'st  to  rest. 

Lone  chrysalis  !  'twas  pride  beguil'd 
The  parent,  thus  to  place  her  child 

Pendent  on  the  cliff's  dread  brow  ; 
Where  haggard  danger,  mute  yet  wild, 

O'erlooks  the  misty  vale  below. 
Ah  !  deem'd  she  then,  what  ills  await 
Ambition's  cliff-aspiring  gait ; 
That  'midst  these  peaks,  the  lightning  stroke 
Rifts  to  the  base  the  gnarled  oak ; 
While  safe  within  the  valley  moor'd, 

Screen'd  from  the  tempest's  scowling  eye, 


134        WEEDS     FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE. 

The  humble  holly  roots  secur'd, 

Nor  dreads  a  fluctuating  sky. 

Ah,  thither  hie, 
On  that  blest  morn,  which  sees  thy  natal  hour  ; 

For  I,  like  thee,  amidst  the  stour 
Of  winter's  keenest  noon  was  nurs'd — 
Cradled  in  woe  and  rock'd  in  storm ; 
Yet,  tho'  the  world  its  cerement  bear, 
To  sepulchre  the  spirit  here, — 

Yet  shall  it  burst — 

Soon  as  the  eternal  morn  shall  beam — 
This  earthly  tegument — this  wintry  dream, — 
And  soar  on  pinion  far  away 

Beyond  the  solar  ray  ! 

1809. 


THE  MANIAC-MOTHER. 


SHE  sits  within  her  maniac-cell, 

Like  statue  in  Egyptian  tomb, 
No  impulse  prompts,  no  passion's  swell 

Heaves  in  her  breast,  where  all  is  gloom. 

And  yet  that  eye's  bewilder'd  sphere, 

E'en  tho'  immovable  it  seem, 
Looks  in  upon  the  soul,  and  there 

Beholds  its  earliest  childhood's  dream. 

And  see  that  flush'd  yet  beauteous  brow, 
O'er  which  a  gray  lock — not  of  time — 

Falls  like  a  flake  of  Alpine  snow 
Upon  some  crevic'd  eglantine. 


136        WEEDS     FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE. 

Her  world  is  all  within ; — around 

She  sees  not — hears  not — feels  not  aught ; 

The  moving  lip  gives  forth  no  sound, — 
She  lives  as  tho'  she  liveth  not. 

The  summer  breeze,  which  wanton  plays 
Amid  her  tresses,  moves  not  her ; 

With  hands  enclasp'd  she  bides  the  gaze 
Of  weeping  friend  and  passenger. 

But  lo !  upon  her  heaving  breast, 

With  tendril-twine,  her  babe  would  seek 

To  clasp  its  fount  of  life,  and  rest 
E'en  there  its  pouting  lip  and  cheek. 

See,  see,  she  moves,  benignant  smiles, — 
Her  eye  unfix'd,  bends  down  ;  she  views 

The  cherub  one's  endearing  wiles, — 

She  weeps — she  weeps  ;  the  blessed  dews 


WEEDS     FROM      LIFE'S     SEA-SHORE.        137 

Of  sweet  affection,  like  the  drops 

Of  heaven  upon  the  sultry  plain, 
Fall  fast  and  thick, — and  new-born  hopes 

And  past  affections  spring  again. 

The  hands  forego  their  marble  hold, 
And  mount  convulsive  from  their  rest ; 

The  mother  rapturous  enfolds, 

And  clasps  her  infant  to  her  breast. 

And  now  his  cheek  is  press'd  to  hers, 
And  consciousness,  like  morning  light, 

Dawns  on  her  soul — and  passion  stirs, 
And  day  once  more  succeeds  to  night. 

Her  lip  drinks  in  his  fragrant  breath, 
She  speaks — she  names  her  infant  one ; 

'Tis  as  a  soul  awoke  from  death, — 

As  bursts  thro'  autumn's  cloud  the  sun. 

7* 


138        WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE. 

The  sculptur'd  form — so  fable  spoke — 
Breath'd  at  the  artist's  earnest  pray'r  ; 

Instinct  with  spirit,  it  awoke, 

And  love,  and  life,  and  thought  were  there. 

But  here,  a  mother's  love  alone 
Doth  reillume  the  torch  of  mind, 

Wake  from  its  wintry  sleep  the  soul, — 
Like  faith  it  loosens  and  can  bind. 

O  Thou,  who  saidst  that  e'en  when  she — 
A  mother — should  desert  her  own, 

Thou  art  with  him  who  flies  to  Thee, — 
Thy  love  surpasseth  hers  alone. 


El  TAP. 

GIVE  me  the  conflict,  where  all  in  all, 

Is  placed  on  the  perilous  cost ; 
Where  conquest  shall  give — or  scath  befarll — 

And  battle  won  or  lost. 

But  this  probation  of  strife  and  woe, 

Which  manacles  spirit  and  will,— 
This  rack  of  bigotry,  blow  by  blow, 

Doth  crush  the  spirit — not  kill. 

These — these  are  the  vultures  of  earth,  which  tear 

The  heart  to  its  inmost  core  ; 
O,  the  lightning's  shaft  were  mercy  here, 

Which,  blasting — blasts  no  more  ! 


TO   J.  P.   M. 


THE  gaudy  mantle  of  pride  and  power, 

Cinctur'd  around,  with  flowery  zone, 
O,  where  is  its  clasp,  at  the  sunset-hour, 

When  the  spirit  in  solitude  sits  alone  ? 
When  the  feast  is  done,  and  life's  pageant  is  o'er, 

And  the  bridegroom  death  in  his  vestments  come,- 
When  the  bowl  lies  broken,  the  oil  no  more, 

And  the  guests  have  departed  one  by  one  ? 

And  at  that  parting,  O  what  are  all 
The  glories  of  morn  or  twilight  gray, 


WEEDS     FROM      LIFE?S      SEA-SHOilE.        141 

The  grandeur  of  ocean,  the  tones  which  fall 
On  the  chords  of  the  heart  in  ecstasy  ? 

When  the  restless  spirit  which  nestled  here, 
Is  fleeing  on  pinion  of  light  away, — 

Escaping  its  mansion  of  sin  and  care, 
To  bask  in  the  beam  of  eternal  day  ! 

Then,  heaven  in  mercy  hath  hung  the  lyre 

Of  earthly  bliss  on  the  willows  of  woe, 
That  the  exil'd  here  might  still  aspire 

To  a  home,  where  music  resumes  its  flow, — 
Where  the  chorus  of  praise  shall  ever  arise 

From  voices  and  harpings,  never  to  cease — 
And  the  light  of  a  Saviour  glad  the  eyes, 

In  a  region,  where  all  is  joy  and  peace  ! 

1830. 


THE   INNER-WORLD. 


LOOK  out  upon  the  things  of  earth — 

The  beautiful,  sublime,  and  fair ; 
Gaze  on  until  the  sated  sense, 

Recoil  at  what  is  there  ; 
The  landscape's  ever-shifting  form, 

The  cultur'd  dale— cliff-pillar'd  sky- 
Torrent  and  lake — all  that  can  charm 

Or  hold  in  thrall  the  eye. 

Look  on  yon  dome's  majestic  pile  : 
See,  where  its  marble  column  throws 


WEEDS      FROM     LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         143 

Its  semblance  on  the  sunlit-stream, 

Which  near  its  terrace  flows. 
Look  out  upon  the  ocean-wave, 

From  the  lone  bark,  or  sea-girt  steep, 
And  note,  upon  its  giant  breast, 

The  tall  ship's  cradle-sleep ; — 
Or  see  it  in  its  waking  wrath, 

Where,  surging  on  the  rock-crown'd  height, 
It  scorns  all  subject-fealty — 

Exulting  in  its  might. 


Or  gaze  on  beauty's  cheek — drink  in 

Of  siren-song,  until  its  strain 
Deluge  the  heart  with  fierce  delight, 

And  joy  itself  be  pain  ; — 
And  the  full  breast ;  like  his  of  yore — 

Check'd  in  his  whirlwind-sweep  of  earth — 
Lament,  that  there  are  bounds  which  stay 

The  bliss  which  here  hath  birth. 


144        WEEDS      FROM     LIFE7S      SEA-SHORE 

Yet  'midst  all  these,  the  drooping  soul, 

With  unplum'd  wing  and  fallen  crest, 
May  sit  within  its  inner  court, 

Unvisited — unblest. 
'Tis  the  bright  sunshine  from  above, 

Whose  effluence  can  alone  illume 
The  things  of  earth,  and  give  a  joy 

Which  lives  beyond  the  tomb. 

The  spirit's  rest  is  not  of  earth  ; — 

Here,  like  a  songster-bird,  it  sings 
From  off  its  spray,  and  looks  beyond 

Where  light  eternal  springs  ! 
True, — to  the  past  it  turns  its  eye, 

As  to  a  little  firth,  flown  o'er, 
And  sees  an  ocean,  surging  on 

Th'  illimitable  shore ! 

All,  all  without  is  aliment ; 

Nor  can  the  outward  sense  inherit 


WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         145 

Aught  of  those  attributes  divine, 

Which  belong  unto  the  spirit ; 
For  eye  and  ear  are  ministers — 

Purveyors  of  the  soul  within  ; 
And  O,  if  darkness  broodeth  there — 

It  is  the  night  of  sin. 

The  mind  illum'd — alike  yon  wave, 

Where  tower  and  rock  reflected  lie — 
Gives  back  the  heaven-enkindled  ray — 

Reflex  of  Deity  ! 
The  atheist-eye  may  roam  at  large 

From  Alpine  height,  o'er  tower  and  fell ; 
Drink  in  poetic  ardor  there, 

And  yet  that  heart  be  hell. 

To  him,  the  light  which  burns  within, 

Is  darkness ;  and  the  spirit  strong 
Cowers  to  earth — a  quirister — 

Yet  darkling  in  its  song. 


146        WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE 

It  sees  the  orb  of  truth  afar, 

Shorn  of  its  glorious  beams,  as  th'  eye 
Of  Arctic  trav'ler  sees  the  sun 

Far  in  the  distant  sky. 

And  O,  if  wrapp'd  within  this  web — 

This  chrysalis  of  earthly  blight — 
The  soul  drinks  in  from  things  without 

Such  draughts  of  keen  delight, — 
What  bliss  awaits  the  seraph — when 

From  this  its  coil  of  earth  set  free — 
It  bathes  in  light  ineffable 

Of  God's  Eternity. 


THOUGHTS. 


THE  deepest,  sharpest  woes,  which  pierce 

E'en  to  the  soul,  not  always  pain, — 
The  wound,  at  times,  may  bleed, — but,  then, 

'Twill  bleed  and  cicatrize  again. 
So,  too,  the  tear  which  kindly  flows 

For  kindred  grief,  shall  pass  away, 
As  night-dew  from  the  drooping  rose, 

Before  the  morning's  early  ray. 
'Tis  well  'tis  thus  ;  for  were  the  grief 

Of  myriads  here,  who  writhe  and  moil, 
Accumulative,  as  the  leaf 

Of  autumn,  on  the  trodden  soil, — 


148        WEEDS      FROM      LIFE5S      SEA-SHORE. 

A  dun  eclipse,  a  general  blight, 

Upon  this  little  sphere  would  fall ; 
Affliction's  cloud  blot  out  the  light, 

And  cover  as  a  funeral  pall. 

1806. 


HEAVEN  wills — and  to  its  high  behest 

Sure  we  should  bow — Heaven  wills  that  here, 

Virtue  should  ever  be  enchas'd 
In  the  jet-ground  of  worldly  care  ; 

And  brightest  gleams  on  darkest  soil 
The  gem  which  holds  inherent  light, — 

In  the  full  blaze  of  day,  no  foil 

Gives  forth  its  beauty  to  the  sight. 

1806. 


AND  yet  despite  the  frigid  lore 

Which  cloisler'd  wisdom  oft  has  dealt 


WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         149 

To  misery's  moan, — 
Cull'd  from  the  scholiast's  crude  store — 
Profuse  of  sentiment  unfelt, 

For  throes  unknown  : 
Still,  like  yon  far  view'd  billow  heaving, 
Tho'  the  rough  blast  hath  left  the  sky, 
The  conscious  breast  to  memory  cleaving, 

Gives  to  the  past  the  tribute  sigh. 

1806. 


I  ASK  not  here,  or  wealth,  or  power ; — 
Grant  to  the  great  the  golden  hour  ; — 
Be  mine  the  might  in  powerful  song, 
To  reach,  to  bear  the  breast  along. 
'Tis  not  the  boon  of  life  I  crave, — 
For  me  no  terrors  hath  the  grave  ; — 
But  O,  let  not  time's  onward  wave 
O'er  my  sod  oblivious  lave  ; 


150        WEEDS      FROM      L  I  F  E  '  S      SEA-SHO11E. 

But  like  the  star,  whose  trembling  light 
Shoots  o'er  the  weltering  wave  of  night — 
I  would  transmit  one  cheering  ray, 
To  greet  life's  pilgrim  on  his  way. 


1807. 


I  ASK  not  fame — it  comes  too  late ; 

What  is  the  laureate-wreath  to  him, 
Who  long  hath  with  an  adverse  fate 

Wrestled  in  agony  of  spirit  ? — dim 
The  pageantry  of  life.     The  appetite 

That  crav'd  the  breath  of  man  is  sated. 
Creator  !  may  the  blessed  light 

Of  truth  be  mine  !     The  spirit  mated 
To  Thee,  the  source  of  truth,  can  ne'er 

Live  on  earth's  aliment ;  but  high, 
Seek  its  original — and  there, 

Merge  all  of  being  in  eternity. 


1841). 


I  SIT  'neath  the  trembling  moonbeam, 
And  list  to  the  light  wind's  play  ; — 

It  comes  from  across  the  graves  of  those, 
Who  were  of  yesterday. 

From  the  pine-clad  hill,  where  they  lie, 

O,  their  voices  seem  to  say — 
The  flute-like  voices  of  those  we  lov'd, — 

We  were  of  yesterday. 

And  the  dark  forest  yields  its  leaves 
To  the  passing  night-cloud's  sway  ; — 

They  strow  the  resting-place  of  those, 
Who  were  of  yesterday. 

And,  O,  it  were  sweet  here  to  rest 

In  peace, — 'neath  night's  trembling  ray, 

And  sleep  the  sleep  of  those,  now  blest, — 
Who  were  of  yesterday. 


1847. 


THE   PEASANT-WIFE. 


JOY  to  the  peasant-wife, 

Lovely  and  mild, 
In  the  well-water'd  valley, 

A  flower  o'  the  wild  ; 
'Neath  her  thatched  roof  plyin< 

Spindle  and  loom, 
She  prepares  for  him  absent, 

The  comforts  of  home. 
From  the  hill-top,  her  carols 


Come  back,  like  the  greeting 
Of  silver-voic'd  cherubs, 

In  symphony  meeting. 
At  dawn,  with  the  woodlark 

Goes  he  fieldward,  and  late, 
With  the  woodlark,  as  duly 

Returns  to  his   mate ; 
While  around  him,  like  vine-plants, 

The  infant  ones  creep, 
And  claim  the  knees'  dalliance 

And  lullaby-sleep. 
These — while  the  yule-fagot 

Gives  forth  its  rich  glow, 
Yield  nights  which  the  vot'ries 

Of  fashion  ne'er  know. 
Thus  in  spring-tide  and  summer, 

In  autumn  and  cold, 
Behold  how  they  cluster 

Like  lambs  of  one  fold. 
Who  watches  their  slumber, 

8 


154      WEEPS    FROM    FIFE'S    SEA-SHORE 

Who  wakes  them  to  toil, 
Fills  their  lap  with  the  fruit 

Of  the  rock-cinctur'd  soil  ? 
That  Being  who  gives 

To  the  raven  its  food, 
And  tempers  the  blast 

To  the  dove's  callow  brood. 
Look  abroad  on  the  mart 

Of  what  worldlings  call  bliss, 
And  tell  if  thou  seest  there 

Happ'ness  like  this. 
'Tis  contentment  alone 

Gives  existence  its  zest ; 
His  life  is  most  fragrant, 

Whose  heart  is  at  rest. 
Then  joy  to  the  peasant-wife. 

Lovely  and  mild, 
In  the  sweet-water'd  valley, 

A  flow'r  o'  the  wild  ; 


WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.-      155 

'Neath  the  thatched  roof  plying 

Spindle  and  loom, 
Who  prepares  for  the  absent 

The  comforts  of  home  ! 


THE  TABLET. 


"Mount  vp  with  wings  as  eagles.' 

LIKE  this  tablet,  thy  life's  volume 
Hath  few  records  yet  within, 

Virgin-leaflets — unassoiled 
By  the  Harpy-touch  of  sin. 

May  its  yet  unwritten  pages — 
Gay  or  sad — record  no  day, 

Which  may  cloud  thy  future  age's 
Calm  descending,  evening  ray. 


WEEDS      FROM      L  I  F  E  '  S      SEA-SHORE.         157 

Life  will  fleet — e'en  now  'tis  fleeting, 

And  our  morrows,  like  yon  sky — 
Earth  and  Heaven  dimly  meeting 

In  the  distance — come  not  nigh. 

And  the  crimson  honors  beaming, 
Tempting  with  their  beauteous  bow, 

Fade  with  night,  like  fancy's  seeming — 
Lo,  'tis  changing,  fading  now. 

As  St.  Bernard's  pilgrim,  wending, 

Where  the  tow 'ring  Alps  arise, — 
Over  crag  and  cliff  ascending, 

Toils  to  near  his  native  skies. 

Peak  o'er  peak,  aloft  aspiring, 

As  in  rivalry,  he  sees  ; 
Snow-clad  vales  beyond,  retiring, 

Lost  arnid  their  mountain  seas. 


158        WEEDS      FROM      L I F  E  '  S      SEA-SHORE 

These  he  tempts  not — but  reposes 
'Neath  his  homestead — while,  abroad, 

All  the  wildering  scene  discloses 
Where,  a  pilgrim,  late  he  trod. 

Thus,  O  youth,  tho'  in  the  distance, 

Blissful  visions  now  arise, 
May  to  thee,  this  earth's  existence 

Ope  a  vista  to  the  skies. 

Lo,  within  the  breast's  dominion, 

Glory,  vict'ry,  empire  lie  ; 
While  ambition's  eagle  pinion 

Tempts  the  glacier-cliff  on  high, 

Where  the  ice-peak  turret  gleaming, 
Sun-illum'd,  is  bright  bufc  cold. — 

Like  philosophy;s  vain  dreaming, 
Like  the  bliss  of  mortal  mould. 


WEED*      FilOM      LIFE'S      SEA- SHORE.         159 

Sun-illum'd  aloft  it  towers, 

Yet  beneath,  dissolving  slow, 
Lo,  an  avalanche, — it  lowers, 

Whelming,  crushing  all  below. 

O,  be  then,  Thou  Rock  of  Ages  ! — 

Thou  alone,  her  bold  emprise, — 
That  when  below  night's  tempest  rages, 

Day-spring  above  may  glad  her  eyes  ! 


THE  GLOBE-AMARANTH. 


TO   J.  P.  M. 
"Since  bright  things  fade,  why  not  this?" 

You  ask  me  why  this  sunny  gem, 

Gather'd  'midst  autumn's  low'ring  weather, 
Tho'  sever'd  from  its  parent  stem, 

Should  hold  its  form  and  bloom  together. 
'Midst  winter's  dark  and  driving  clouds, 

Unalter'd  peers  the  self-same  flower, 
Nor  dreads  the  gloomy  north,  which  shrouds 

All  nature,  with  benumbing  power. 


WEEDS      FROM      L  I  F  E  '  S      SEA-SHORE.         161 

Observe  its  leaves,  like  warrior's  mail, 

Obdurate,  hard,  repel  the  finger; 
No  zephyr  pauses,  to  inhale 

The  odors  which  around  it  linger. 
Why  should  it  fade  ? — nought's  there,  which  death 

Could  banquet  on,  and  find  a  home  ; — 
It  lives — lives  on — while  'fore  the  breath 

Of  winter,  leaf  and  flower  have  flown. 
E'en  with  the  breath  of  spring,  some  one 

Begins  to  pale  its  virgin  hue : 
The  daisy  closes  with  the  sun, 

The  primrose,  ere  it  drinks  the  dew. 
O,  it  is  only  hearts  and  flowers 

Of  tender  form  and  lovely  dye, 
Which  feel  the  chill  on  life  that  lowers, 

And  wither  'fore  a  wintry  sky. 

8* 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 


STAR,  of  eve,  ofsilv'ry  hue, 
Who  on  my  pillow  beam'st, 

'Midst  yonder  fields  of  deepest  blue, 
On  pilgrimage  thou  seem'st. 


Art  thou,  indeed,  of  earthly  mould — 
That  gem'st  the  brow  of  night — 

And  with  our  sphere  dost  kindly  hold 
Sweet  interchange  of  light  ? 


WEEDS      FROM      L  1  F  E  '  S      SEA-SHORE.         163 

To-morrow's  sun  which  lights  us  here, 

Shall  give  to  thee  our  ray  ; 
We  then  shall  be  thy  evening  star, 

And  thus  thy  beams  repay. 

Bless'd  intercourse  !  'tis  thus  that  souls, 

Illumin'd  from  above, 
Give  back  that  joy  themselves  receive, 

Communicant  of  love. 

Be  then  our  star,  when  dews  of  night 
This  earth  with  tears  have  strown, 

And  we  shall  be  to  thee  a  star, 
To  cheer  thee  in  thy  own. 


MARY. 


IF  life  were  but  a  vision,  bright  yet  fleet, 

Athwart  whose  wildering  maze,  in  pleasing  show, 
Those  phantom-joys  disport,  which  mortals  greet 
As  aye  substantial  forms  of  bliss  below — 
Were  he  not  then  accurs'd  who,  with  fell  blow, 

Would  seek  these  joyous  visions  to  dispel, 
Which  of  themselves,  alas  !  too  quickly  go, — 

Evanishing  ere  seen — so  frail  the  spell — 
Like  nightly  fire  of  yore  at  sound  of  curfew-bell. 

O  Mary,  still  I  see  thee  as  thou  wert, 

Flush'd  with  expectancy  of  coming  years, — 


WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         165 

That  soul  whence  genius  beam'd — that  full-ton'd  heart, 
Nor  darnp'd  with  sagging  doubt,  nor  blench'd  with  fears, 
Nor  weeting  aught  of  future  haps  or  cares, — 
Thee  viewing  thus,  oft  'fore  my  sickening  soul 

Memory,  the  record  of  the  past  hath  held, 
When  panting  for  the  self-same  glorious  goal, 
I  laugh'd  to  scorn  the  prudent  lore  of  eld, 
That  with  monition  kind,  hath  stern  upheld 
The  disappointment  and  the  care  which  blight 
Ambition's  fearful,  cliff-aspiring  flight. 
Then  bounding  buoyant  with  the  conscious  spring 

Of  raptur'd  thought,  the  heaven-plum'd  spirit  soar'd, 
And  on  ambition's  untir'd  wing, 

All  the  enchanted  worlds  of  sense  explor'd 
Teeming  with  fantasies  which  know  no  name, 

With  feeling, — felt, — but  not  to  be  portray'd, 
Fir'd  with  the  God-enkindled  thirst  of  fame, — 

I  heeded  not  the  voice  that  would  have  stay'd, 
With  kind  monition  ;  spurning  all  beneath — 
The  pageantry  of  earth — for  fame's  undying  wreath. 


166        WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE. 

But  ah  !  the  vision  fled — the  spring-time  bloom 
Of  dreamy  life  was  gone ;  full  soon  I  wept 

O'er  years  irrevocably  gone ;  around  was  gloom. 
That  fame  I  curs'd,  which  like  a  mildew  crept 
O'er  feelings,  which  had  else  contented  slept, 
Envying  the  hind,  who  o'er  the  threshold  stepp'd — 
What  time,  his  daily  task,  and  labor  done, 
Slow  speeding  homeward  at  the  setting  sun, 
He  finds  a  home,  a  fireside,  and  an  eye, 
Dew'd  with  affection's  heartfelt  witchery. 

Mary,  thou  soon  from  earth  didst  pass  away, 

Ere  thou  hadst  read  this  monitory  rhyme, 
And  now  art,  where  one  bright  unclouded  day 

For  ever  beams.     I  little  deem'd  that  time, 
Who  spares  the  scathed  oak, — with  tyrant  sway 

Would  spoil  that  flower,  fairer  than  that  which  bloomM 
In  Enna's  vale,  where  Ceres'  daughter  roam'd. 

And  here  thou  restest,  maiden,  all  entomb'd  ; 
Yet  O,  not  so  ;  thou'st  join'd  that  choir  on  high, 


WEEDS      FIIOM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         167 

Where  choral  strains  are  ever  heard.     Thy  dwelling 

Is  by  the  source  of  sacred  minstrelsy. 
'Tis  there,  thou  drink'st  inspiring  draughts,  excelling 
All  which  from  crystal  streams  of  earth  are  welling, 

Or  Aganippe's  fount,  or  Castaly. 

1813. 


NACOOCHEE." 


THY  vale,  sweet  Nacoochee, 

Midst  slumbers  of  night, 
Comes  over  my  vision 

In  garments  of  light ; 
I  see  thee — still  see  thee — 

A  vestal  all  bright, 
Array'd  in  thy  vestments 

For  eve's  coming  rite. 

While  Yonah,  uplifting 
His  forehead  on  high, 


WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      SEA-SHORE.         169 

Like  prophet  preparing 

For  sacrifice  nigh — 
Thou,  sweetest  of  virgins, 

Meek  bending  below, 
Like  an  angel  of  peace 

Wreath'st  with  chaplet  thy  brow  ! 

* 

And  see  in  the  distance, 

Still  rises  to  view 
The  pure  glowing  heavens 

Of  dazzling  hue. 
And  bright  tissu'd  crimson, — 

And,  towering  on  high, 
Dark  Yonah  scowls  darkly 

Against  the  bright  sky. 

While   over  thy  valley, 

Nacoochee,  there  gleams 
The   moon's  early  crescent, 

Or  sun's  latest  beams ; 


170        WEEDS      FROM      LIFE'S      S  E  A  -  S  H  O  R  E 

O,  it  seems  as  if  Heaven 

Affianced,   would  be 
Still   nearer — still   dearer, 

Nacoochee,   to  thee  ! 


THE    ARTIST 


THE    ARTIST. 


INSCRIBED    TO    J.    P.    M. 

I  KNOW  not,  if  the  ethic  sage, 
Whom  thoughts  excursive  oft  engage  ; 
Whose  speculative  flights  begin 
E'en  at  the  origin  of  sin, — 
Hath  ever,  in  discursive  vein, 
Dwelt  on  this  truth — no  cynic  strain — 
That  man,  however  constituted, 
Whether  exalted  or  imbruted, 


174  THE      ARTIST. 

Hath  centred  in  him  a  shrewd  sense 
Of  beauty  and  of  excellence. 

In  apposition,  bard  or  brother 
Project  their  shadows  on  each  other  ; 
So,  in  the  zone  of  night,  one  star 
Shines  brightly — where  no  others  are, — 
Of  satellites  or  so — a  few — 
But  galaxies  of  wits  won't  do. 
In  science,  true,  these  things  are  various, 
But  when  was  genius  e'er  gregarious  ? 

Herein  we  see  the  reason  why 
That  dusk-brown  dame,  Antiquity, 
Gives  to  the  hazy  past  assistance, 
By  throwing  authors  into  distance  ; — 
It  softens  down  and  quite  subdues 
The  coarser  shades,  unblending  hues ; 
So,  the  fly  in  amber  finely  shows, 
Whose  buzzing  teazed  around  one's  nose. 

The  ideal  in  bust  is  truly  hit, 
By  the  blank  eye  ;  for  that's  unlit ; 


THE      ARTIST.  175 

Wanting  locality  of  sight — 
It  seems  to  tell  the  critic-wight, 
That  orbless  eye  sends  forth  its  ken 
"  To  other  times  and  other  men." 

Nay,  look  not  thus, — I  meant  not  now 
To  discompose  that  halcyon  brow, 
Which,  like  the  rainbow,  shows  the  storm 
Of  envy's  scath  at  distance  borne  ; 
While  dove-ey'd  peace  and  truth  sincere, 
Twin-born  of  Heaven,  are  nestled  there  ! 

And,  that  the  poet  may  dispense 
With  his  vain  modicum  of  sense, 
Most  aphoristically  wise, — 
A  tale  of  old  shall  best  suffice. 

A  painter,  who  with  magic  art, 
E'er  through  the  eye  could  reach  the  heart, 
Would  fain — his  locks  now  blench'd  with  age, 
Imp'd  by  the  bosom's  noblest  rage — 
Essay  once  more  the  canvas'  might ; 
Thus  setting,  like  the  sun,  in  light. 


176  THE      ARTIST. 

The  idea  fir'd — again  his  soul 
Rush'd  forth  to  reach  th'  alluring  goal  ; 
Again  would  win  the  living  bay, — 
Such,  Fame,  is  thy  all  potent  sway  ! 
His  strokes  a  wizard  power  inherit, 
Each  magic  wave  calls  forth  a  spirit ; 
And  while  successive  charms  appear, 
His  soul,  effusive,  revels  there  ! 

Thrice  had  the  sun  his  coursers  driven 
Through  the  elliptic  line  of  Heaven, 
When,  'neath  his  proud  exulting  view, 
The  tablet  spoke  to  nature  true  : 
Forth  to  the  eye,  his  pencil  gave, 
Just  rising  from  the  Tyrrhene  wave, 
The  Cyprian  Queen.     You  would  have  thought 
A  life  was  in  the  colors  wrought ; 
So  fraught  with  every  breathing  charm, 
The  tell-tale  cheek  with  love  was  warm  ; 
The  lip,  with  laughing,  pointing  dip, 
Would  tempt  an  anchorite  to  sip. 


THE      ARTIST.  177 

The  eye  spoke  worlds,  the  dimple  coy 
Bore  heaven's  impress,  and  told  of  joy  ; 
And  O,  what  witching  foil  was  there 
Of  ebon  lock  and  forehead  fair  ; 
What  flexile  grace,  and  breathing  swell, — 
Angels  had  gaz'd,  and  deem'd  it  well  ! 

Lo,  whilst  the  vet'ran-genius  pores, 
And  soul-plum'd  aspiration  soars  ; 
While,  with  time-silver'd  lock,  he  bends, 
Which  waving  o'er  the  frame  descends, — 
It  seem'd  like  Beauty's  self  sublime, 
Beneath  the  gaze  of  halting  Time. 

Now  'neath  the  Academic  dome, 
Where  connoisseur  and  artist  come  ; 
Where  daub  and  genius,  cheek-by-jowl, 
Alternate  shock  and  raise  the  soul ; 
Where  Raphael's  soul-subduing  touch 
Yields  to  the  cognoscente's  smutch, — 
Behold  the  laurell'd  sage  appears, 
Bow'd  'neath  'bash'd  diffidence  and  years  ! 


178  THE      ARTIST. 

Yet  might  you  see  in  that  dark  eye, 

A  conscious,  proud  nobility, 

Which  spoke  a  soul  ne'er  vilely  bending, 

Whose  eagle  ken  aloft  extending, 

Holds  converse  with  that  source  supreme, 

Whence  genius  draws  its  vestal  flame. 

In  noble  rivalry  array'd, 
Around  the  hall,  the  eye  survey'd 
The  pencil's  godlike  strife, — for  there 
Shone  forth  each  emulous  compeer, 
Marshall'd  in  the  proud  career  ; 
And  each  would  win  the  laureate  crown 
Which  makes  the  future  all  his  own  ! 

See,  where  amidst  the  list  is  plac'd, 
By  frieze  or  'broidery  ungrac'd, 
The  glowing  tablet, — and  beside, 
To  tempt  the  power  of  critic-pride, 
His  brush  and  palet,  arm'd  with  jet, 
A  gage  for  rivalry  are  set. 
And  as,  when  'midst  the  stellar  host, 


THEARTIST.  179 

The  wilder'd  sense  in  rapture  lost, 
Unsated  roves, — if  th'  eastern  moon, 
Bulges  full  orb'd, — their  radiance  soon 
Fades  on  the  view, — e'en  so  the  gaze 
Turns  to  where  powers  sublimely  blaze  ; 
E'en  so,  afore  the  master-fire, 
The  lesser  glories,  pale  retire. 

With  rapture,  ecstasy,  delight, 
Each  bosom  owns  the  artist's  might ; 
Each  too,  with  knowing  air  and  eye, 
Declares  the  thing  a  prodigy  ; 
Gazing  with  satyr-eye  and  awe, 
As  'twere  the  goddess'  self  he  saw  ; 
When  erst,  from  forth  primeval  night 
She  gave  her  beauties  to  the  light. 

At  first,  in  eulogy  each  ran  : 
"  Sure  such  were  ne'er  the  work  of  man  ! 
So  just  the  finish  !  and  the  air 
So  unique,  the  ideal  so  fair  ! 
Congruity — proportion — true — 


180  THE      ARTIST. 

The  ensemble,  chaste,  and  full  of  gout  ; 
Expression,  grouping,  keeping  such, 
Nought  was  deficient — nought  too  much  !" 

"  And  yet, — methinks,"  a  coxcomb  cried, 
Fraught  with  a  petit- maitre's  pride, 
And  bowing  with  submission  meek, — 
"  And  'tis  with  reverence  I  speak, — 
The  lip  is  somewhat  here  too  curv'd  ; 
3Tis  here,  the  artist  sure  has  swerv'd  ; 
The  amendment's  facile, — pity  'tis, 
A  thing  so  perfect  were  amiss." 
He  said,  and  with  the  profFer'd  jet, 
Noted  the  fault  his  eye  had  met. 

A  travell'd  dilletante — next, 
With  brow  in  wrinkled  thought  perplex'd, 
Who  all  the  Vatican  and  Louvre, 
Had  curiously  inspected  over  ; 
Each  grace  could  tell,  chefd'ceuvre,  blemish, 
Florentine,  Lombard,  Roman,  Flemish  : 
So  great  a  connoisseur,  the  man 


THE      ARTIST.  181 

An  Angel  with  a  frown  could  damn  ! 

Or  with  enraptur'd,  heavenward  eyes, 

A  Devil  apotheosize ! 

With  swinging  gait  he  makes  advance  ; 

Steps  forward,  back,  and  looks  askance  ; 

Talks  much  of  Poussin,  Raffaelo, 

Tints  grave,  warm,  neutral,  cold,  and  mellow. 

"  Th'-  antique  in  keeping  !  drapery  fine  ! 

The  style  correct !  the  tints  divine  ! 

In  short  'twere  faultless,  did  but  here 

More  of  amenity  appear." 

He  said,  then  seiz'd  the  stygian  dye, 

And  gave  a  spot  to  either  eye  ! 

And  as  when  hostile  chiefs  prepare 
To  close  in  strife,  at  first  in  air 
Few  missiles  sent,  incite  to  rage, 
Till  close  confronting,  all  engage  ; 
Even  thus,  prelusive,  critic  ire 
Provokes  the  war,  and  all  aspire, 
Grasping  the  brush  in  breathless  haste. 


1 82  T  H  E      A  II  T  1ST. 

To  prove  his  judgment  and  his  taste. 
E'en  thus,  for  so  the  Chian  bard 
Hath  sung, — ^Eolia's  chieftain*  warr'd 
With  Beauty's  Queen,  and  ichor  ran 
From  wounds  celestial — shed  by  man. 
Thus,  round  the  tablet,  each  would  dare 
A  goddess — and  assault  the  fair  ; 
Till  lo  !  before  the  invasive  crew, 
The  picture  vanish'd  from  the  view  ! — 

There  is  an  alchemy  divine 
Whose  treasure  mocks  Potosi's  mine, 
And  shames  the  gorgeous  eastern  gem, 
Cresting  the  Moslem  diadem  ! 
It  grows  not  pale  o'er  tomes  of  eld, 
?Tis  not  by  midnight  vigil  spell'd, 
It  seeks  not  charms,  nor  filters  rare, 
Nor  delves  the  earth,  nor  thrids  the  air, 
Nor  orgies  holds  with  elfin  crew, 
Who  lure  to  harm,  by  deeds  untrue  ! 

*  Diomedes. 


THE      AilTIST.  183 

O  no, — it  blesses  and  is  bless'd, — 
Its  crucible,  the  human  breast ; — 
'Tis  this,  sustains  this  ball  of  earth ; 
'Twas  present  at  existence'  birth  ; 
The  fiat  which  said,  "  Let  there  be  light," 
Consign'd  to  earth  the  guardian  sprite  ; — 
And  when  yon  skyward  vaulting  sun, 
Thro5  heaven's  blue  arch  hath  ceas'd  to  run  ; 
And — snapp'd  the  golden  cord,  whose  force 
Retains  the  planets  in  their  course — 
When  systems  have  in  ruin  rush'd, 
In  one  primeval  chaos  crush'd, — 
Thou,  CHARITY,  with  outstretch'd  plume 
Uprising,  shalt  thy  seat  resume, 
And  'midst  the  empyrean  high, 
Shall  dwell  for  aye  with  Deity  ! 


LA   FAYETTE. 


'TWAS  Alleghan  that  first  beheld  thee, 

Panoplied  'gainst  freedom's  foes, 
When  ascendant  fame  impell'd  thee 

To  the  clime,  where  erst  she  rose ! 
Where  her  birth-star  proudly  gleaming, 

Hover'd  o'er  th'  impurpled  west — 
There  wert  thou  ;  whilst  honor  beaming, 

Lighted  on  thy  gallant  crest ! 
There,  'twill  be  told  in  future  story, 


LA      FAYETTE.  185 

Thou  midst  heroes  led  the  van, — 
Herald  of  Columbia's  glory — 

Envoy  of  the  rights  of  man. 
E'en  despots,  at  thy  voice  appealing, 

From  prescriptive  folly  broke  ; 
And  in  thee,  with  kindred  feeling, 

Europe's  chivalry  awoke  ! 
'Twas  then,  her  noble  spirit  soaring, 

Shook  off  the  feudal  dust  of  years, 
And  o'er  the  wave  with  banner  tow'ring, 

Came  warrior-chiefs  and  chevaliers. 
Ages  of  glory,  stars  of  heaven, 

Kingdoms  and  kings  shall  rise  and  set, 
But  this,  thy  gage,  for  freedom  given, 

No,  never  shall  our  sons  forget. 
Deeds  like  these,  dear  to  our  sires, 

Shall  live  and  deck  the  lofty  rhyme, 
Deeds  like  these,  like  signal  fires, 

Blazing  through  the  lapse  of  time, — 


186  LAFAYETTE. 

Shall,  midst  thraldom's  darkest  night, 
Be  as  a  watchtower  to  the  free, 

And,  blazing  on  the  freeman's  sight, 
Bid  him  strike  home  for  liberty  ! 


THE      END 


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YC161572 


